The Smell of Blood
by ToriTC198
Summary: The coppery tang of blood flooded Derek's nose as he neared the Stilinski' home. There was no doubt that the blood belonged to Stiles Stilinski. Derek could never have even imagined something like this. Trigger warning for cutting. Nothing but angst with fluffy end. (Eventually)
1. The Smell of Blood

_AN: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters._ _So, I finally found myself a beta/co-author and she is wondrous and full of angsty goodness so she is going through the fics I already have and helping me with them. Thus this fic is already up and already complete but in a much more rough draft version. We will try to get this fic rewritten quickly so the entire better version can be posted._

_Much thanks to C__herFleur.__ You are awesome._

The Smell of Blood

The coppery tang of blood flooded Derek's nose as he neared the Stilinski' home, walking through the neighborhood, the last location on his list-that-he-did-not-keep of pack-houses-that-certainly-didn't-need-to-be-patro lled. His first feeling was one of confusion, and maybe a bit of disbelief. His first _instinct,_ was to attack whatever had caused this sudden, horrible panic. His next – noticeably more calm and rational reaction, the one he listened to – was to assess the situation before going in, claws and teeth bared against an unknown threat to someone that he considered a part of his pack. Already, in the back of his mind he had sorted through all of his people, his pack, and that particular scent, was sending up flares of warning and cold terror.

There was no doubt that the blood belonged to Stiles Stilinski.

He had been witness to the smell of Stiles' blood more times than he liked to recall. Quietly and carefully, he crept around the side of the house, muscles twitching and trembling with adrenaline and nerves, peering through each window as he went. Nothing looked wrong with the first floor, which just made him bare his teeth in a snarl of frustration, and try to reign in his ever jumping heartbeat. He leapt to the roof to start a search of the second floor; he couldn't hear anything other than the unnervingly steady heartbeat of the lone teenage boy who rested in his room, engulfed in the thick, terrifying smell of that irritatingly endearing teenager's lifeblood. After he rounded the corner on Stiles' room he almost gagged. The smell of blood had intensified, and he had to force himself not to tear into the room without thoroughly examining the situation. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath – which was less calming than he would have liked as it was tainted with the smell of blood, blood of someone very important to him, and he craned his neck around the window to see inside.

Derek didn't know what he had been expecting, but this was nowhere near it.

He could never have even _imagined_ something like this.

Perhaps he thought he would see the Alpha pack standing over a dying, beaten, and bloody Stiles. Maybe Gerard had come back for revenge. Perhaps, for once, it had nothing to do with the dangerous world of the supernatural, perhaps it was just some human robber that had chosen the wrong house to rob, or the right house, depending on how you looked at it; Stiles himself wasn't a werewolf, and they could have easily found one in Beacon Hills. Robbing a werewolf would certainly not go over well for the unwitting thief.

The last thing on Derek's mind as he peered through the bedroom window was that the only thing or person he would see was Stiles.

Just Stiles.

Alone in his room.

With a _razor_.

For a moment Derek was frozen, even if it felt like time itself had slowed to allow him to feel his heart squeeze tightly against his ribs and his blood to pump loudly, as if to mock the droplets that emitted the deadly intriguing aroma which had beckoned him to the teenager's house. He didn't know how to process this new information. He didn't think he _could. _His mind tried denying what his eyes were telling him. Stiles wouldn't be hurting himself, not on purpose. Not with as much as he did on accident. Stiles wasn't like that. Stiles was happy and healthy and stable – well, that was a bit debatable, but he wasn't like… _this_. Stiles was full of jokes and sarcasm. He rarely was caught without a grin on his face. A person like Stiles would never attack himself with the cold calculated ferocity Derek clearly saw in every line of the young man's body.

There had to be a reason.

Derek snapped back to reality, when he saw, with startling, supernatural clarity Stiles preparing to set down another mind-numbingly, excruciating line on his already blood-stained skin. In an instant he tore open the window – really, Stiles should have honestly known better than to leave windows unlocked by then – and shot into the house. The delicate yet deadly, gleaming metal was in his hands so fast that the Alpha didn't even register the movements himself.

There was a moment where the younger male's hand continued the motion, only to break off once the realization hit that he no longer held the object of focus. Confusion crossed the teen's features, where before there had only been concentration, and perhaps a disturbing bit of relief, as if the action of painting himself with delicate lines of crimson removed a weight, a burden that was invisible before. Derek himself wished to bleed at the thought that there was something so crushing inside one of _his _pack and he hadn't known.

Perhaps he had even allowed it, or worse, caused it.

The gears slowly slid into place in Stiles' mind as he sensed the presence of another body in his room, rather close into his personal space, actually, Stiles blinked up at him in shock for a moment. Then, suddenly remembering the position he was in, what he had just been doing, realizing exactly what secrets he was unintentionally revealing to the werewolf who was now in his room – in his _space_, the space he'd kept so carefully for these moments, these reprieves from all the overwhelming things that were taking over his life – he tried to hide the evidence of what he had done. Tried to hide the history, worries and pain he had carved into himself as a means to hold himself together; to fight off the loneliness and the agony. He tried to reassure himself that he had been fast enough – that Derek had somehow managed to miss what exactly Stiles had been doing mere moments before.

He was just deceiving himself.

"Oh, uh, hey, Derek, what are you doing around here?" Stiles asked feebly, trying to force some cheer into his voice, struggling for conversational, for normalcy, as his routine, his relief, was bared to someone he cared for. He felt fear. There was a growing ache beneath his breastbone. His throat felt like it was swelling as he realized he couldn't, for the life of him, read the unyielding, empty expression before him. As nonchalantly as he could, he slid his arm around behind him, as if just leaning back to support himself. Which, was really a rather good idea anyway, as he felt like he was about to fall over. His limbs felt weak in a way he wished he'd never known before, but was becoming something of a regularity when faced with the werewolf before him. He knew it was stupid to try and hide the glaringly obvious evidence, but some small – or maybe not so small, really, pretty huge in fact – part of him was in denial that Derek had seen Stiles' arm at all. Or maybe it was denial over having arms at all. Yeah, let's go with that. No arms here. Nope.

None.

Who needed arms?

That part was delusional and hopeful in equal measure. He felt his mouth go dry with nerves, tongue sticky and slimy with saliva.

Silence met his question and Stiles sat awkwardly pondering – or panicking at – Derek for a while, heart racing as he watched that intense, deep gaze direct itself towards the floor rather than his face. He couldn't read him. He had no idea what he was thinking. Derek seemingly refused to meet Stiles' eyes, perhaps he was deep in thought, or perhaps he was wondering why he was there at all, why he should care at all about the hyperactive little bastard that only snarked at him and tripped all over himself. The teen wasn't sure he could speak over the lump in his throat.

He didn't know what he would say, anyway.

"Well um… This has been fun and all," Stiles' voice was higher than normal and laced with panic, how was he still talking? He couldn't control the words leaving his mouth. Not like it was any different than usual, but still… "But I have somewhere I need to be, like, now. Oh, wow I am so late for this thing. That very important thing that I'm late for, so I'm going to leave. To get to the thing," Stiles got up delicately – or as delicately as he could, considering the sudden weight and numbness of his limbs – and made to exit the room. He found his way blocked by a wall of Derek. He made a rather effective wall, all things considered. He certainly had the density for it, and Stiles would know, he was well acquainted with many of the walls in town, ironically via the werewolf who was now pretending to be one. Perhaps that was why he shoved Stiles into so many? He was trying to confuse Stiles in some way? Or was it a bonding experience? No, no, not that. Well, maybe – Derek's hand had found its way to his shoulder, gripping it lightly, keeping him in place, and knocking his internal, manic rambling off track.

"Why?"

The voice was deep and familiar, but the tone was so, so different. It was soft and gentle, and perhaps a bit stilted, as if hesitant, perhaps waiting for a rebuff of some sort. It was the most broken sounding word Stiles had ever heard from Derek's mouth. It was wrong. It sounded choked back by something. It could have been anger, or fear, or even perhaps tears. Whatever the cause it felt like a punch to the gut to hear that sound from his Alpha. The whisper of that broken word made Stiles' breath hitch in a whole different kind of pain. It baffled and terrified Stiles and he really didn't want to speculate, he just wanted to escape this whole situation. But his normal route of escape was still clutched in the too strong grip of an Alpha werewolf. The thought crossed Stiles' mind then that perhaps Derek's grip on the deadly implement of relief could actually damage it. He shoved down the irrational anger at Derek for ruining a perfectly good blade.

Instead he let his mouth run freely as he threw out any words he felt could potentially make the wolf release him, "Well you know… things to do, places to be… not really my choice. This thing really isn't by choice, y'know? Sometimes there's just a thing that you got to get to. There isn't much 'why?' to it. I just need to go. To the thing. Which I'm very late for," rambling. Rambling had always been his 100% effective way to get people to leave him alone. It sent them running for the hills so they didn't have to tolerate his inane babble.

To his surprise, Derek didn't retreat or give up. Instead he looked up at last and met his eyes, Stiles was taken aback by the look of the red shaded with strong, barely restrained emotions. Derek growled out, "I'm not asking why you're trying to leave and you know it. Don't think you can play dumb here, you can't word vomit your way out of this. Why would you do this to yourself? I want to know what caused you to turn to this."

_And if I can fix it,_ he added silently. _Let me be able to fix this. Don't let me lose another person so close to me. Don't break my pack any more than it already is._

Looking into Derek's eyes was what ruined Stiles, the depth there that he was normally lost in, and swallowed by, was overflowing with so much emotion, emotion that he never thought he'd get to see when facing the Alpha. He was floored by the pain and sorrow, the self-recrimination, that he saw swimming in those big green eyes. Stiles felt his control of the situation start to slip, as well as the delusion that he'd had any control to begin with. The lack of control is what got him into this situation in the first place. He couldn't keep pretending that everything was fine and he couldn't keep brushing off what Derek had walked in on, because while it was normal and every day to him, it was not so to the man before him. It was not something that _should_ be passed by, not really, not when he really thought about it. When faced with those eyes all he could do was break down. So he did. It felt like such a slow process to him, starting from within and then worming outwards from his soul, into his bones, muscles and blood.

It was so much quicker on the outside though. At first, he blinked rapidly, skin shivering with goose bumps and cold sweat as he struggled to keep a handle on his emotions. His lip quivered, jaw clenching, hands fisting and splaying without thought and then… just a few tears slipped, gathering quickly and running out and spilling over, but soon they were cascading down his face. Just as he lost the ability to stand – emotion breaking through his thin, weak defenses – Derek was there to catch him. It was a new sensation, being caught by someone as broad and intimidating as the older man, and he didn't know how to feel about it. Usually it was Scott who did any sort of supporting, but he wasn't there, and he hadn't really been there for a while. He found himself on the floor enfolded in Derek's warm arms. Stiles clung to him like his life depended on it.

_It probably does, in some twisted way,_ some ignored part of him thought.

They sat for a while together on the floor as Stiles continued to weep, body almost convulsing with the strength of his distress. Derek just held him firmly, with his strength gentled enough to not hurt the boy, and rubbed tender patterns onto his back to comfort him more than to calm him down. Once Stiles had reasonably more control, had released enough of his pent up feelings, Derek stood up, gave Stiles a soothing look that told him to stay put – that he would be back – oddly calming in its confidence, as if _Derek _were in complete control and nothing would go wrong now that he was there, and then he walked out the door. That look easily convinced Stiles to stay exactly where he was, staring numbly after the Alpha. It was also a very effective look in helping him hold it together. Some part of him responded to the Alpha command in Derek's eyes and he found he didn't think he could move even if he wanted to. In his mentally and emotionally exhausted state, he really didn't want to.

As Derek left the room that was so flooded with the heavy scent of blood, he practically gasped at the fresher air. He took a moment to lean against the wall as he shoved down the wolf in him that was roaring in anger and pain. His breaths came quicker than normal and his hands trembled but he soon shoved off the wall and forced his feet to carry him to the bathroom. Stiles _needed_ him, and that was all the motivation that _he_ needed. Derek grabbed a washcloth and small basin that he found under the sink, and filled it with warm water, taking the time that he stood waiting for it to fill to force some calm into his raging, aching thoughts before he left the small room. Wordlessly he went back into Stiles' room and grasped the arm that was still very slightly seeping blood. Gently, with an almost feathery touch that seemed contradictory of his superior strength, he started to wipe away the blood that had dried already, and that was gathering on soft, pale skin. As he went, his heart twisted and squeezed. Broke more and more.

He felt shattered and hollow.

Not just because of these new marks covering Stiles' skin, a testament to the stress he'd been under dealing with the Alpha Pack, and possibly everything since the supernatural had crashed into his life – since _Derek_ crashed into his life. No, he felt crushing emptiness, because, underneath the blood he found clusters of scars. Scars that were clearly from years past, some so old he could barely see them, even with his wolf sight. Lines of slightly puckered skin marred Stiles' entire arm with smaller fine white lines dotted between the larger offenses. Derek tried to think of a time that Stiles had ever worn anything that didn't hide his arms and his thoughts ran into a blank wall. Never, he had never seen these bare arms. He had no idea how long Stiles had been hiding this secret. Derek's hand lingered lightly over a few of the worst marks as his mind tried frantically to deny the evidence of pain that lay right at his fingertips. Pain he should have seen – should have stopped. Even the very oldest lines, lines carved into skin far before Derek had even met Stiles, felt like a crime he should have been able to halt had he only known what caused them.

"It started after my mom died," was the answer to his unasked, horrified, pained thoughts.

He paused briefly in his work as if to absorb Stiles' words.

Really, he was just thinking about the pain of losing someone so important to you that it felt like the whole world was falling down around you, on you, crushing you under the weight. He'd had several of those someone's, and now, he recognized his panic and fear at the scent of Stiles' blood as the prelude to the same feeling of utter devastation he had felt losing Laura and the rest of his family.

He knew the feeling, but, he'd never even thought of turning to something like this to keep himself in check. Without lifting his gaze from the wounds he was cleaning, he wondered bleakly how different he and this young man before him really were.

Stiles had watched the werewolf work in silence for a few minutes before he decided to speak up. He had the silly, romanticized feeling that letting the werewolf wipe the blood from his marked arm, baring his past woes in such a way, was cleaning more than his skin. It wasn't a bad thought, just a little too much of the Scott-when-encountered-with-Allison style.

Something about the atmosphere in the room had shifted and Stiles felt that he owed an explanation to this man who was so carefully taking care of him. More so, he _wanted _to tell someone, and because he knew that Derek had plenty of secrets, practically breathed them, he knew he could keep them. Mostly, he wanted to trust this new side of the werewolf that he'd never seen directed at him before, a comforting, safe side, the side that eased some of his nerves about how very _Alpha _he had become. It separated him in a way he hadn't known he'd been comparing him to the Alpha Pack in.

Compassion.

Receiving no more response from Derek, Stiles continued, hoping he was right in feeling that he wouldn't be scolded or brushed off for his feelings and thoughts.

"It was how I dealt with my panic attacks, mostly. When I felt myself slipping… losing control… I would do what I could to try and focus on the present instead of on… well, on whatever was triggering my attack. At first, I just would dig my nails into my hands, because it was just so _frustrating_, so _humiliating_ that I couldn't control my body, that I couldn't…" Stiles took a deep breath and Derek glanced up at the teen quickly seeing the few silent tears leaking out of his wide brown eyes dripping down his pale cheeks. Derek gave Stiles' what he hoped was an understanding look and it must have worked because the boy opened his mouth again, "Once I realized that the pain kept me grounded I started finding easier ways to cause the pain. It was the only way I could be myself again. The drugs they give me and all the 'help' that people offered me did nothing to bring me back. Once I found that pain could make me feel whole again, make me _me_ again, there was nothing that was taking that away from me. It fought back the constant sensation of drowning and I couldn't face going back to that feeling again.

"It kept me stable. Stable Stiles," he tried to joke weakly, voice going soft and uncertain as he stared down at his exposed arm, thinking, remembering. "And with my dad… he was so… so tired and broken and… heavy… but once I'd started, it got easier for him. Now I've been doing it for so long… I'm…I'm not certain anymore how to stop. I've never really even thought about it. What if I were to stop, and everything goes back to the way it was? That I wouldn't be able to pull through for my dad, that Scott wouldn't have anyone to turn to for his wolfy problems, or something comes up with the Alpha Pack and I won't be able to help you guys, that I could make things worse or be unable to help when everyone needed it most… The idea that the panic attacks would start again – that I'd lose myself to that – that my dad would feel that weight… it terrifies me."

His voice broke a little on his last words, eyes burning for another time, but he blinked it away, not wanting to start that again, even if he felt he wouldn't be condemned for it. Some of these things, he'd never thought of, until he admitted to them, revealed all of the pain and fear that somehow, he could cause the death or worse of one of his friends, his family…

He was so scared of that, so, so scared. So he kept mapping out that fear on his skin, kept that fear at bay with the biting pain that had the ability to overpower even his terror; that let him know he was still in control. Still Stiles, not a sobbing mess of a human struggling to breathe. Struggling to think. For just another minute the pain gave him the strength to keep going. Each scar a reminder of what could have been if he hadn't put the blade to his skin, of how he may have screwed things up when he was needed most. Each of those imperfections on his skin showed him the war he had fought to keep ahold of himself in the worst moments. Each mark was a reminder of the tentative grip he had on his sanity as he watched his friends get torn apart again and again by hunters and other wolves. These lines that tore his body apart were what held him together.

Derek looked up at him then, solid, steady eyes fixed on him in a way that made it apparent he was _really _looking at Stiles. He was seeing him.

More importantly, Derek was accepting him. Accepting and not judging him for the confessions he had allowed to spill out.

His eyes really did burn then, chest warming, hands shaking with relief as he somehow remembered how to breathe again, unaware that he'd been holding his breath for several moments, afraid of whatever recrimination might be in those eyes. That there was none, really, it just made him want to break down again.

There was no judgment in his gaze, no blame, no anger. Just calm understanding, and a little bit of sadness. Sadness that said he wanted Stiles to have never felt anything like this. A sadness that made it achingly clear Derek wished he could have protected Stiles from each individual hurt that had resulted in this mass of wounds.

_It's because he's the Alpha_, the back of his mind thought quietly. _Because_ _Alphas protect._

"Stiles," he began, his voice cracking a bit, before steadying into the same, deep understanding, mildly remorseful, with an echo of guilt. It was so soothing, and heart wrenching at the same time. There was no disgust, no hate or pity. And best of all, he wasn't dismissed; he wasn't left to feel his terror and ineptitude alone. He'd been alone in this for so long, with his worries and his deep seeded fear, that the relief of having a second, much stronger, set of shoulders to help bear the weight… it was so freeing, and so frightening.

"I don't know what you've gone through and I can't erase the past, but I _promise_ you, that you can stop this. I don't expect you to do it on your own, or that it will be easy. There is nothing easy about this, but I can help you. I _will_ help you. You're one of the strongest people I know, and you have people who love you all around you, you can find it in yourself to beat this. I won't let you stand under this burden alone. If you fall, I will catch you, if you want me to, and even if you don't," those _eyes_. They were so steady, so direct, and the teenager was _so_ not even trying to break this gaze. The way he was looking at him was just… perfect. "I will catch you. You're pack, Stiles, you're important to all of us. To me," he trailed off for a moment, unknowing of how strongly his words were branding themselves into Stiles' heart, before adding, "I'm so sorry I didn't realize sooner. I didn't know that you were fighting your own battle without us."

"No, Derek, this has nothing to do with you," even though, since the whole werewolf debacle had started, it had. It was just that those scars from a year ago and these most recent ones, had a different meaning behind them. Before it was fear _of_ Derek, and now it was fear _for_ Derek. "Don't try to blame yourself," Stiles bore all the responsibility. "You couldn't have known. I didn't want anyone to know," he was lying, he knew, because he'd always had this part of him that was scared of the pain, didn't like it, knew that he shouldn't and had wanted someone to save him from himself. "It's not your fault that you never noticed."

"No, I'm the _Alpha _of this pack, our pack," those words carried a meaning that Stiles didn't quite get, but they were heavy, weighed probably the same as the razor did when it rested in his hands. They were words meant to protect others. "It's my job to know when one of my pack needs help. To help them. Especially when it's the person I care about the most. The one I love," Derek said the words quickly as if he were embarrassed to say them but his eyes never left Stiles' and they spoke of honesty and possibly some fear, maybe a little disbelief that those words had escaped his lips, that thought had been allowed out, but...

They were words of truth.

"Derek… I thought… I never thought… never knew…" Stiles paused briefly to collect himself, heart in his throat and body feeling so light, he almost wondered why he hadn't started floating yet. Perhaps it was the grounding feeling of the werewolf's strong, warm, broad hand still gripping his now clean wrist. "I feel the same," his stuttering answer was broken as Derek pulled the boy closer and wrapped his arms around him.

The embrace was gentle and firm, and oh-so warm against Stiles' cold, clammy skin. He felt heated to the core. He could feel the rapid beating of the older man's heart, and that made his own slow down a bit as he fully processed this new declaration of feelings.

He was _loved. _

Derek _loved _him.

_Derek _loved _him._

There were tears in his eyes again, but this time there was also a tremulous smile crawling across his features, threatening to split his face wide. His heart had already been bared, and he was finding it hard not to just hand it right over to the stronger, broader, sturdier male to take care of. He certainly would do better with it than Stiles would.

He couldn't do any worse than he himself had.

Derek released a tentative smile at Stile's own confession and he softly stated, "I know," he didn't quite understand why, but he could feel that Stiles was telling the truth. There was no lie in his scent, and the joy that crept into his voice was telling in and of itself. Stiles really did feel the same and despite the somber situation Derek felt himself allow just a little room for hope.

Stiles pulled away from the embrace to look the Alpha in his eyes. Those _eyes. _Encouraged by the hesitant, almost unsure affection he found in them, Stiles leaned forward. It was with inexperience but little fear of rejection that he gently kissed his sour wolf, finding his heart leap anew with love and elation as he was not rebuffed. It was brief, and it was chaste, but it communicated the depth of their feelings for one another perfectly. He could almost see a depthless ocean spread out before him in that one moment. There were no ripples, but it glowed with their emotion.

Stiles felt sure that in the future, and in a less serious setting, they would do much more kissing. He was definitely down for the kissing. He was so going to get more of the kissing.

Oh god, he'd just _kissed_ Derek Hale.

He felt off-balance and light headed, and it was _glorious._

_Derek _effing _Hale._

"So, uh," Stiles said, unsure, but voice breathy and light with a giddiness he had never felt before, lips tingling – he'd just kissed _Derek Hale_! – and almost glowing with happiness. "What now?"

Green eyes peered deeply, almost shyly into chocolaty brown before warming with confidence again, as well as contemplated affection.

"How about we start with you promising me that we can work together to help you stop hurting yourself?" it hurt more than just Stiles, really. It hurt people who didn't know, because someday they might, and they'd blame themselves, just as Derek was doing then. Derek didn't want to tell Stiles this. It would just make him feel worse in the end. "Because I don't think I could bear ever seeing you do this to yourself again. We'll get through this together."

"I promise," _I'll do my best, for you, and for me, _he promised deep within, trying to make the thought firm. _And for dad, if dad were to ever find out… it would kill him. _"And Derek?"

"Hmm?" his voice was almost sleepy, and the deep grumble of it made a light flush flutter into Stiles cheeks as he smiled, enfolded once again into that strong, careful embrace. His eyes prickled again, but that was all they did. He could find no reason to cry, and his joy was so much more than he had felt in years.

There was such safety in this hold.

There was love.

"Thank you."

Derek quietly tightened his hold on Stiles, eyes a little wet himself, even if the younger male couldn't see it, and he didn't let go for a long, long time.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

_AN: I mostly just wanted to write a more realistic self-harm__fic__. I've read a lot where Derek find Stiles__self-harming and it somehow leads almost immediately to sex or making out and I find it really isn't a realistic thing for people to do right after one of the two is found cutting. As a former cutter myself, this is a much better way to deal with someone you love who is cutting. The proper response is never, "You're bleeding, let me screw your brains out because I love you and don't want to see you hurt."_ Oh yeah, I'd go for that.


	2. The Long Road Ahead

_AN Tori: Trigger warning for self-harm. Also I sadly do not own any of Teen Wolf's characters._

* * *

Derek could never forget that life altering moment when he discovered Stiles' secret. He would never forget the day that followed it either. It had been a day full of frustration, anger and a surprising amount of hope. It proved to Derek that Stiles was going to be alright. That they would be okay, that they could handle this, together.

He had stayed with Stiles throughout the night, even fell asleep in his bed; he just couldn't stomach the thought of leaving him alone after such an emotionally challenging night. Not with the lingering scent of his blood in the air, calling to other predators as it was. It had his hackles up at the very thought of leaving a member of _his _pack – and Stiles was always more than pack anyway – alone when wounded and weak; when he was suddenly so very _human._

When he awoke, it took but a moment of tensed confusion – before the mixture of scents and the glowing warmth curled into his side reminded him why he was in the Stilinski home, which for a delirious moment had just been _home_ – and as the memories came flooding back to him, he shuddered. In his mind's eye he could see the cruel glint of the razor tearing through the skin of the person he loved, held in the horrifying and painful grip of that very person, directed by a compulsion, a desire he didn't quite understand. Just thinking about it terrified him, and had him yearning to bare his teeth at his invisible enemy. Or not so invisible, really, considering he had more than likely caused some of those lines of grief.

He could never call Stiles himself the enemy, even if some would see it that way. No, the enemy was the faceless desire for pain that had stolen pieces of Stiles will in his weakest moments. It had bound him into the ease of dependence.

Derek's enemy was the world.

As those fumbling, long fingered hands had pressed metal into flesh they'd been, for once, steady – bearing a startling grace – when they'd grasped the instrument of Derek's torture. So delicately he held it, with care, the weight of lives, the pressure of them, had been the driving force behind each motion. Of course, he had to be careful with the lives of those he loved; he would never be careless with them, they were all he had. An ease of practice was in that grip and that fact caused a queasy burn in the werewolf's stomach.

A thought then occurred to him.

"Stiles?" Derek shook the boy gently to wake him, listening to the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat that spoke of his growing awareness, smelling the confusion as Stiles' sleep fogged mind tried to wrap itself around the concept of waking. "Stiles, come on, get up."

Stiles rolled over dramatically a groan tumbling slurred from sleep numb lips, taking every scrap of the covers with him – as practiced a motion as Derek had ever seen, and it was a great comfort, a release of tension, to think that the teenager had more routine things in life than causing himself pain. Stiles mumbled something about The Grumpy Doughnuts taking over the world and how he couldn't wake up because he needed to collect more of The Sacred Holy Sporks to arm The Defenders of the Earth.

Derek raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of him to catch up to his mouth. A common occurrence if there ever was one where Stiles was concerned.

It took a moment, but suddenly it clicked in Stiles' conscious mind that the voice telling him to wake up was not one he expected to hear in the morning. It was much too young, and not nearly as ignorable as his dad's routine wake up call, when he was home anyway. There was significantly less exasperation.

Nor was said voicebox usually sleeping next to him, smelling so good, or y'know, _touching _him.

Touching.

Touching?

Touching.

The hand that had shaken him back to the oh-so undesirable wakefulness had slid to the skin that showed beneath his tee-shirt sleeve, powerful fingers curled over the crux of his elbow. Wait… the touching. The touching involved skin. Skin? Touching skin. Yep, definitely touching skin. Touching _his _skin? Yep, his skin, too. Someone was touching his arm, and he had recently been sleeping, which meant none of his arm-skin should be showing so… what? The touch was warm, and felt rougher than his soft young skin was used to, but still not as hardened as one might think. Werewolf healing, indeed. Couldn't even get good calluses, could he?

Werewolf?

Why was he thinking about werewolves suddenly?

Unless… something was tugging at him from his subconscious, an understanding, a memory, threatening to spill over into the conscious. His subconscious was a place he usually made a point to ignore at these hours of the morning. And several other times throughout the day.

A lot, actually.

That niggling understanding that detracted from his outward awareness didn't stop the heat from the touching hand from pulsing outward over his body, jerking Stiles' attention to a very, ah, pressing… problem.

Oh, _god._

_What is my _life_?! _He thought with mortification, feeling like he could swallow his tongue. Briefly he pondered shoving his face back into his pillow to hide the red that he felt seeping into his cheeks. Before he could follow through on that plan though, his brain finally fully acknowledged who the werewolf beside him was.

"Derek!" He yelped – Jesus, it was _Derek Hale _who had apparently slept next to him, and was now _touching _him, which was exacerbating certain _morning problems_ – sitting up suddenly and almost falling off the bed in the process. He struggled to keep the blankets over the cause for his embarrassment, momentarily wishing for heart failure to detract from the utter humiliation. "Whathehell!"

Another few moments passed as his sleep addled brain cycled through his thoughts enough to remember why Derek was there in the first place. It hit him like a ton of bricks when he felt the slight sting of the air hitting the still recent cuts that graced his arm. His hand involuntarily clenched shut as his mind supplied, in vivid detail, the events of the night before.

Right.

_That_ was what happened.

Shit.

For a moment his face faltered and fell at the thought of what Derek had seen, the shock of years' worth of coping being bared to the man before him was both a relief and also somewhat regretful, but after a few seconds he felt a small smile tug at his lips as he remembered the result of _that_ particular discovery.

That could've gone a hell of a lot worse.

There had been _cuddling_ and _canoodling!_ Of the mouth! As in his lips touching someone else's lips. Touching _Derek Hale's _lips! Derek. The hugest-crush-in-a-century-I-think-I'm-actually-in- love-with-him-oh-my-god _Derek Hale_!This was pretty much the epitome of the best way discovery of his secret could have gone! Especially considering all of the not best and very bad ways this could have gone.

Of which there were lots more.

Like, a lot.

He didn't think there was an actual word for how many bad ways this could have gone. Shit-ton might work. Or maybe Fuck-ton.

No, no, the worst's were really all summed up into _Dad-_zillion. He resisted the urge to shudder at the thought of how _that_ reaction would have gone.

There may have been bars involved with his windows, and appointed Scott times. Maybe an ankle monitor thrown in for good measure.

Definitely a strait jacket and a padded room.

Totally a best case scenario.

Not.

"Morning." Derek intoned, cutting short Stiles' rather inane internal track.

"Hardly," Stiles shot back dryly, as quickly as his sleepy, stumbling tongue and swollen with sleep mouth – probably a bit of dehydration too, now that he thought about it – could. "Is the sun even _up_ yet? Who gets up before the sun does? Overachievers, that's who, and nobody likes an overachiever. Nobody. Not even teachers. I'm pretty sure they like them even less than slackers, because then there's more work involved –"

Derek cut him off.

"No. I just had a thought and I didn't want to go back to sleep and forget it," he admitted almost sheepishly. _Or let you babble on so that I forget it_, Derek added in his head. Stiles said nothing and Derek assumed that was an invitation to continue.

He took it as one.

It was as good as he was going to get, considering how often Stiles was silent, really.

"Stiles…" Derek cleared his throat and took a deep, calming breath. He tried to ignore the lingering hint of blood in the air. This was harder than he'd thought it would be. The last thing he wanted to do was bring up what he had seen, really, he just wanted to wrap himself around Stiles and go back to sleep, forget anything ever happened. Derek felt fragile, like he didn't have the strength right now to confront the issue of Stiles hurting himself. He knew though that he had to be strong for Stiles. Stiles needed his help. Still, he couldn't bring himself to look Stiles in the eye as he asked the question that was plaguing his mind.

"Where did the razor end up Stiles? I had it in my hand for a while but I put it down and now it isn't where I left it."

There was a distinct note of desperation in his voice.

Silence met his question and for a moment Derek was terrified that Stiles would lie to him or flat out refuse to give up the razor. He was certain in that second of quiet that Stiles had changed his mind overnight and wasn't going to accept his help. Worse, he was scared that Stiles would refuse to stop this damaging vice, that he would cling to _it_ rather than to Derek. If the teenager did, it would likely destroy them both.

Would he push him away? Demand to be left alone for good? Because really, what did he owe Derek? He was the cause for much grief, for so much pain, and several of the scars on his arms, of that he had no doubt. Worse he was the cause of the scars you couldn't see, the ones that bled something that he couldn't scent.

Stiles' didn't deserve someone as ruined as Derek. Derek only caused people pain. Stiles was like a ray of sunshine that brightened the life of every person he ever met. Who was Derek to darken that?

Derek certainly didn't deserve Stiles.

Stiles didn't deserve to be stuck with Derek.

There was too much good for Derek to ruin.

When the silence stretched on, Derek debated between repeating the question and simply accepting Stiles' apparent rejection by leaving. As his eyes fell to the faint red lines on Stiles' arm that were still wrapped in the smell of hurt, he knew he wouldn't ever be able to walk away of his own volition. Even if Stiles told him to leave, hated him for refusing, Derek would still stay at Stiles' side until he was certain the teen was safe from himself. If he had to tear the house apart to find the razor or if he had to sit outside Stiles' window every night making certain that the smell of blood was never dragged from the boy again he would do it gladly.

Even the thought of the stalker comments the other members of his pack would spew at him wouldn't deter him. Not even Stiles' dad – well no, that would probably deter him.

The sheriff was surprisingly intimidating.

Stiles' answer, when it finally came, was quiet and laced with guilt.

"I saw that you'd put it down and grabbed it back up," Stiles' hands gripped tightly at the covers as the words tumbled out of his mouth, the strain causing the paling of his knuckles to show faint, nauseating lines. They made Derek wonder just exactly how many other scars were hidden on the teen's body. "I don't even know why I did it, Derek, I just felt like I needed it. I hid it under the bed," now it was Stiles who couldn't meet Derek's gaze. Derek on the other hand felt a little bit sick to think that he had slept so soundly last night while the object of Stiles' misery lay right beneath him. So close he could have reached out and grabbed it. "I panicked, Derek. I'm sorry. I didn't mean… It was just sort of… instinct."

_What could shape instinct like that?_ Derek wondered. _How many years of falling back on such a habit before something like grabbing a razor became instinct?_

He knew about instinct, lived it, breathed it, dreaded it.

And yet…

And yet he knew nothing of this instinct, the instinct to harm oneself, alone, to mark himself in such a way. Perhaps once he could have, in those horrible months after the fire, after Kate, to punish himself, if he'd thought of it, but… he wouldn't have scarred. It wouldn't have stayed with him. The futility of it would probably have only made everything worse for Laura, because he would have retreated farther into himself, perhaps even just… stopped.

It hurt that he couldn't understand this part of Stiles.

The pitiful tone in Stiles voice had Derek wrapping his arms around the boy again, hating the trembling of soft, pale skin, the lingering smell of blood that hovered over the teenager's own scent.

"It's alright, Stiles. I understand," _I'll try to, anyway_, he promised. _And even if I never do, I'll be here for you_. After a brief pause, Derek was letting go of Stiles to get down onto the floor and looking under the bedframe to locate the hidden blade. It hadn't even been hidden really, just placed in the shadows cast by the sheets and frame. There were a couple of errant papers that drew attention away from it as well but nothing that would hide it properly. Derek wondered how many times he had been in this room while the razor lay poorly hidden in the darkness of Stiles' bed. Those moments when he had shown up to demand research from Stiles or to inform him of pack news; how often had he been standing mere _feet_ from this same blade?

Derek resisted the urge to snarl as his hand curled around the offending object, he felt it bite ever so slightly into his skin, despising its hateful, smooth and harsh edge. The wound healed before it could even hint of blood, calling an aching spite from deep within his bones and he watched the skin over his nails shiver, wishing to release claws that would show this little bastard of a weapon what it really meant to cut, tear, and sever.

It seemed so tiny in his hand, so absurdly inane. Harmless. Yet it had the potential to hurt and even kill; it tempted and called to someone precious to him, told them to wound themselves, to keep it secret, hold back… "Stiles, are there others? Do you have more hidden anywhere?"

This was a question that Stiles had been dreading and he felt himself curl inwards a little as his mind tried to shy away from the inquiry. He had _never _– when he started this whole thing – thought that cutting would become what it had. It wasn't simply the calming, centering technique it had started out as. What started as clenched hands, nails to skin, had turned to hands holding a weapon, a tool of destruction. A thing of concentration, a distraction from whatever was the cause of stress or fear, had become the thing supporting him, the _only _thing that would really drive away the panic, would bring forth awareness.

For years it had been a wall to lean on when he had no idea how to process what was happening in his life. A tool, something to prop him up just enough to stand as tall as he could. In those years he had learned to associate the tearing of his skin with the release of positive endorphins and the feeling of regaining his control and his footing in the craziness of the world. It was a focus.

But he understood now what he hadn't been willing to admit to himself for years, what had caused a minute hesitation whenever he felt the need to turn to his blades, to lean on them. There was a part of him that understood just how wrong this was, how abnormal, how _crazy. _It was the part of him that had pushed him to his limits before he gave in, the part that told him he had to be in the worst possible position before turning to his cutting relief. That little piece of him that'd longed to be found, for someone to come and help, to stop all the pain and the overwhelming fear, that part knew just what this little focus had become.

It had become an addiction. One of which he was terrified to let go.

What would he do without it? What would become of everyone if he fell, and had no crutch, no wall, to lean on?

Derek's soft, steady, calming voice brought him out of his thoughts once again.

"Stiles, answer the question," Derek's voice sounded with that edge of _Alpha _that he'd heard last night, that same soft, aching tone that brought heat to Stiles' eyes and a lump to his throat, even as he began to relax into it, to the order. Even behind that lilt, he could hear the fragmented fear. Fear for him. For _Stiles. _It was so… painfully breathtaking. "I'm trying to help you, Stiles. Please let me. We were going to do this together, weren't we?" His voice had gotten gentler towards the end, that tugging reminder of the previous night, and Derek had taken Stiles' hand in his. Stiles noticed that Derek's other hand still held the razor, fingertips tight and pale with the pressure the werewolf was putting on it; light reflected off the metal and a smear of Stiles' blood was still visible.

The surface was beginning to warp under the light show of wrath towards the object, as if it was responsible for every problem that Stiles now faced.

With Derek.

He was facing them, with Derek.

Not alone.

The look in Derek's eyes when Stiles finally found the will to look up into his face was enough to give him the courage to answer The Question. Stiles swallowed and tried to find his voice, locked as it was behind the knot in his throat at hearing that tone from the man before him. He failed.

Instead of continuing to struggle for words – he needed what strength he had for what was to come – he stood slowly, and silently he began leading Derek around his room. As they went, he gathered things from various hiding spots. Some in the most innocuous of places. Who would suspect school supplies, right?

He handed them to Derek who took them without comment or visible reaction. Derek watched silently, features placid, as Stiles took a knife from his dresser drawer, a collection of thumb tacks from under his desk, a pair of scissors from the top of the desk, a second razor from the inside of a picture frame and a broken piece of glass from his closet.

It was a close thing, holding all of his pained, furious, howling emotions from showing on his features, but he was nothing if not used to holding himself back. The fact that he somehow seemed to be out of practice after only six hours said how turbulent his thoughts were regarding the young man before him. He hadn't felt with such intensity and longing in so long that he'd almost forgotten how to handle himself, his Change.

Derek held this small collection of objects in his hands and tried not to think of what these things had done to the body of someone he called pack, someone who was _family, _and _important _and… He loved Stiles, he did, and it was just so… wrong, that all of these things had left a mark on his body, that it was unlikely that he'd ever know which scar came from what instrument, let alone _why_.

With what Stiles had done… it was hard.

It was harder than anything Derek had dealt with, harder than anything since the day his family burned away into ash and nothingness. It was almost more difficult than coming to find his sister's body in the forest, in _pieces, _than having to kill his uncle for attacking children, for _tearing apart _what was left of their broken family.

He felt like he was losing his sanity, his control, bit by bit but he had to be strong for Stiles.

Stiles was being so strong right now, it would be unfair, unkind, _inhumane_, to leave him like this.

So he fought his imagination as he stared at the objects of contempt in his hold. He refused to allow himself to picture Stiles carving patterns into his own flesh even as the images came unbidden to his mind. He refused to think about Stiles needing the release of pain so badly that he would need something within reach at all times. That he could be sitting at his desk, maybe during some night when they'd asked him – no, _demanded_ – that he look something up for them, research into the night until the next time Derek saw him he smelled of exhaustion and sharp soap. He refused to think these things, but they came to his mind anyway.

He was so weak.

What kind of Alpha was he?

It only got worse from there. Just as Stiles had finished his collection in the room and Derek thought he could just go smash these horrible… _things_ to pieces, Stiles opened the door of his room and continued down the hall.

The werewolf's stomach dropped and he felt suddenly ill.

He led Derek all over the house, continuing to gather the hateful items. These new tools were expertly hidden and most were rather inconspicuous things anyway, like more scissors and some kitchen knives. Things the Sherriff would assume had merely been misplaced if he had found them where they didn't belong. Things the Sheriff would never have thought twice about, despite the fact that every one of them had taken part in the injury of his only child. As long as it was sharp, it had served the only purpose Stiles needed it for.

Derek lost count of the number of bladed or pointed things Stiles had led him to. Stiles still hadn't said a word.

Derek was having trouble remembering to breath.

As they progressed throughout the house, Derek did notice that Stiles had started to look just a bit happier, a bit lighter, with each item he unveiled. After a while he started to seem like he was taking pride in the fact that he was letting go of these things that held such sway over him. Something like satisfaction sat on his features, and the werewolf swallowed back the bile that had been bubbling at the back of his throat at his contained rage. Derek felt that pride swell up in him as well, taking the place of the knot of tensed, frustrated emotions. For a moment he stopped walking with Stiles and just let the feeling of knowing that he and Stiles were going to get through this soak into him. Stiles, feeling the lack of Derek's silent, warm, supportive presence behind him, came to a stop before heading back to where Derek stood. Abruptly, Derek dropped his pile of _weapons_ – gods, household tools were _weapons,_ implements of self-torture – on a nearby table and he reached towards Stiles.

He pulled him into a fierce, trembling embrace and quietly, hoarsely murmured into the teenager's ear. "Stiles," there was a minor break in his voice_. "Thank_ you."

The entire thing was over before Stiles had a chance to hold him in turn.

Derek retrieved his collection of horrors and looked expectantly at Stiles, waiting for him to continue.

Stiles' eyes felt suspiciously wet, but he just blinked it back.

It took nearly an hour for Stiles to comb through the entire house and retrieve everything he had ever used to cut. By the end of it, Derek had been forced to find a small cardboard box to hold it all.

"Well, uh," Stiles started as he handed Derek one last painful artifact. "That's everything."

Later, Derek would look back on that moment and recall that Stiles' heart sped up briefly, his skin had gotten cold and clammy, cheeks flushed and eyes averted, the slightest taste of nerves in his scent, as he said those words. At the time though, all Derek could think of were the many creative ways he could come up with to destroy and mangle the various tainted – soon to be warped – instruments held in his box of torment. His hands spasmed stiffly, briefly against the compressed paper product, and dug small grooves into it, giving off the scent of fresh paper.

Some of them would probably melt if he made a hot enough fire… no, not an open flame, perhaps a kiln? Some were thin and could be crushed easily by his powerful claws, or maybe he would just use his hands, try to get that little bit closer to Stiles by bleeding a little with him. Whatever it took, he was going to demolish this entire box. He held more hatred for this small box of inanimate objects then he ever had for the Alpha Pack or Gerard Argent.

Stiles for his part looked exhausted, some of the weight that'd seemingly left his shoulders had returned as he'd given away the last tool of his relief. He collapsed onto the couch, and looked at Derek, examining him. The werewolf was giving such a look of malicious delight towards the box that was full of Stiles' secrets that the teenager just knew that they wouldn't last the day. Part of him was thankful for this, while another was keening with the terror of what he would do without those comforts, those careful crutches for him to lean on. What would he look to in a room when he was overwhelmed now? The thought that if things got too bad he could go to any room in the house, or just reach out a hand to settle things had been such calming thing, but now… what would he do? What was going to happen now? Was he going to panic when he couldn't find something to help, or was it going to be okay? Could he do this? But… right.

There was one thing.

There was Derek now. When he ached for the bite of metal across his skin he could turn to Derek instead of to the nearest weapon. The comforting wall to lean on that his collection had provided could be replaced by Derek. Still, in the back of his mind, he wondered about the times that Derek couldn't get to him fast enough. What would he do? What damage would he cause himself when the day came that Derek didn't come?

When Derek didn't do anything except glare at his box for a long while Stiles patted the seat next to him to catch his attention, and perhaps get some pick-me-up snuggle time before the older man ran off to gleefully tear things apart, possibly to use Peter for target practice. A smile bloomed as he looked up at Stiles, thoughts drifting away from his destructive planning – or constructive, depending on how you looked at things – his teeth rather pearly white and normal, even as Stiles caught just a hint of fang, and endearing in the weirdest way.

The expression caused an answering smile on the teenager's own features, this one small and sweet, a bit shy and hopeful as he looked back at Derek, gesturing again at the seat beside him.

It was a genuine smile, one that warmed Derek's heart.

He set the box on the floor for now, sending it a scathing, grimaced look, and took the seat that had been offered to him. Without even consciously thinking about it, instinct dictating that he touch, be closer, his arm had automatically gone around Stiles and pulled him nearer, he found himself leaning into the younger man. Derek decided he was okay with that.

Pack was close, had been close. _Should _be close.

A small part of him that he usually just ignored with an impressive misuse of willpower hoped and pleaded for more pack closeness, for the family feel he used to have, for all of his Betas and his humans to know that warmth, that safety that he'd known growing up. He wanted that for them, wanted to give that to them, even if he hadn't quite figured out how; hadn't quite figured himself out enough to know.

There was no way in hell he was asking Peter.

"Derek," Stiles said quietly, contemplatively. "I think I can do this. I really think I can. I'm terrified out of my mind at the thought of it but for the first time I feel like perhaps I have the chance to stop. A reason," he looked up from where he'd been gazing at his hands in his lap over to the calm intent expression on the Alpha's features. "I've never really had a reason to stop. Never wanted to," _liar, _he thought to himself. "But I think I can do it now. Want to."

"Of course you can do this, Stiles. You are, and always have been, far stronger than you know, than anyone else has known. I know that this won't be easy on you. I know that after spending years of dealing with your problems in a certain way, and alone, it will be hell to break that habit," his eyes spoke of experience, of a deep understanding. "But I _know_ you can do it. I will be here every second, every step, of the way."

Derek looked deep into Stiles' eyes then and after an instant of hesitation, lowered his lips towards Stiles', nuzzling his nose against the teenager's temple for a quiet scenting before continuing to press their lips together. His kiss was returned with an enthusiasm that brought warmth rushing through his chest, but in the back of his mind Derek knew he needed to get that damnable box out of the house. He needed to remove himself from the situation for a moment, he needed to think, and as much as Stiles would've liked to deny it, he _also_ needed time to think, even if Derek hated the idea of leaving him alone.

So he reluctantly pulled back and with one last quick peck, a slow, deep breath against the younger's temple and an affectionate look to the dopey smile on the teenager's face. He stood, letting his hand trail firmly over Stiles' shoulders as he did so, and collected the box from the ground.

That day, he left feeling confident that things were going to get better – it may take time and effort, both of which were spotty at best with the Alpha Pack around, but they would make it work – and the fact that, despite the terrible circumstances, he finally had Stiles. Stiles had him. Which while not much, was maybe enough to lean on in place of pain. A part of his pack was confirmed, a part of his heart vindicated and warmed.

Things were finally looking up.

As Stiles watched Derek leave he ignored the voice in the back of his head, a voice that was reprimanding him with worry and fear. The voice that reminded him how he kept sneaking glances at the box, heartbeat quick, too quick after so long after that earthshattering kiss, even as he had watched Derek stand and grab it, as if he was drawn to it. The voice reminded him of that one last piece, that lie that was pattering in his heart in a staccato rhythm. The razor hiding underneath the bar of soap in his bathroom was so blatant in his mind that he could barely think, yet he murmured a goodbye in reply to Derek as he left his home.

He felt a chill emanate out from his chest through his bones as the cold steel called to him, taunting his stuttering breath, his clenched jaw, his clammy hands.

They'd only just started, and he was already lying to Derek. He felt low, wrong. Cold.

Derek had been so warm.

Stiles didn't deserve Derek.

The voice reminded him how he had left that one thing on purpose, reminded him that it wasn't going to be easy, that maybe Derek should know, he'd probably even let him keep it. Studies showed that everyone needed a safety net, even if they didn't use it. It wasn't going to be cold turkey he needed to be better and perfect, but Stiles couldn't listen over the feeling of terror that was forefront.

_It's just in case,_ he told the voice. _I'm not actually going to use it. It's just a safety net.__ Derek doesn't need to know, because I won't use it._

The voice didn't answer, just gave him that aching feeling that he was disappointing someone, somewhere.

What would his mom think?

But still…

It's only just in case.

I'm not going to use it.

Just in case.

Really.

He felt pathetic.

* * *

AN Cher: FYI I wanted to put in smoochies, instead of canoodling, but Tori wouldn't let me, because she's got a thing about the word or something.

AN Tori: It's a _creepy_ word. Deal with it.

AN Cher: But we _ALL _know, that Stiles would totally use smoochies, even if canoodling is a pretty good second. I guess. Maybe, kinda.


	3. Life Goes On

_AN Tori: Sorry this update took so long. First I was on vacation in another state so it was harder for Cher and I to collaborate (she claims I'm her muse so she couldn't write without me) and then the day I got home Cher got her wisdom teeth out so she's been out of it for a few days._

* * *

Life Goes On

It had been a week since the event that Stiles had termed 'Ground Zero.' Ground Zero had been when he and Derek tore through his coping mechanism to start building anew on sturdier, more solid foundations. Now he was on day seven of keeping and coping with the hardest, largest promise of his life.

At the end of each day he managed to make it through, he would get home to find Derek waiting in his room. Stiles would never admit it out loud, except maybe with his Sarcasm Shields up, but the stress relief – the utter, terrifying liberation – of being able to walk into Derek's arms each night was the only thing that held him together those first few days. And every morning. Thinking about what was waiting for him at the end of every taxing, painful, frighteningly discordant day helped him to get through. But he itched, his skin itched for the cold, sterile bite of steel.

Derek was like the rock in what had become a very turbulent sea, the barrier against the monsters that dwelled below in the deep; he was the scarier, sharper, more powerful beast that frightened the others away. The very thought of never taking a blade to his skin again, not feeling that sharp, sweet ache, had him wanting to cut just to feel its power over him again, that wave of calm, of concentration and focus. The effects were so powerful, the cold chill and heart-stopping bite, now replaced with a warm embrace and a heart-throbbing affection. The smell of pine and earth, undercurrents of static and ozone that signified _other, _replaced the scent of rust and copper, or cold metal and damp fleece.

Even the warmth and strength that leeched into him through Derek was barely enough to ward those thoughts off each day.

But it _was_ enough.

Only just.

Derek spent the first week hanging out around the school – no, he wasn't _stalking _him, no matter what Stiles was saying… and okay, maybe it was a _little_ creepy – when Stiles was in class and then heading to the teenager's house the second Stiles made to head home. It wasn't that he didn't trust the boy to keep his promise, and it wasn't that he thought Stiles was too weak to get through this. It was because he was just starting to realize how close he could have come to losing Stiles, the terror and uncontrollable frustration at his inability to change the past and protect their future was killing him with worry. He couldn't stand the thought of what he could have lost.

He could have lost him before he even had the chance to _have _him.

In the depths of Derek's mind, his imagination played out all of the times that Stiles could have sat alone in his room drawing line after line into his skin. Carving out the history of his fears, pains, and anger. Derek thought of how many times Stiles could have risked cutting too deeply or too much. As a werewolf Derek was no stranger to death, but the thought of Stiles dying by his own hands was too much; he'd had so much taken away from him, the idea of someone taking _themselves _from him just burned to the core. So he kept an eye on Stiles to assure himself that Stiles was still there.

It was purely for selfish, needy reasons.

The first pack meeting after Ground Zero produced a few raised brows.

Lydia was – of course – the first to notice something was amiss. She didn't say anything aloud, but Stiles noticed the look she gave him when he sat down next to Derek. Oh, he was in for some grilling. Allison saw Lydia's look, and Stiles saw her lean over to Scott and whisper something in his ear. He was totally going to be a shish kebab when they got the chance to talk to him. At that point obviously everyone in the room was thinking that something suspicious was going on because a whisper isn't very effective in a room full of werewolves. All eyes turned slowly to look in Derek and Stiles' direction. The burning curiosity that he saw there was pretty much on par with what he'd been expecting.

They had talked about the packs reactions. Stiles had asked him at one point if his Big Scary Alpha image would be ruined if they told the pack about their relationship. Derek had made some sort of sarcastic comeback but quite honestly Stiles had completely forgotten it because it was followed by a mind melting kiss. Later, Derek had looked him in the eyes, a strange, warm look in them – alongside something that Stiles was thinking of dubbing the My-Human-Is-So-Weird look – and in a moment more sappy than Stiles thought possible of Derek he was told, "I will never be embarrassed of you, Stiles. I would never want to hide from the pack that we're together. We're important."

The fact that Derek hadn't seemed at all upset or embarrassed over the whole ordeal, made Stiles feel like he was missing some big werewolf thing. Maybe a family custom or something? Who knew.

_So_ not asking Creepy Uncle Peter.

They had also had the more morose, uncomfortable and altogether terrifying conversation about what to tell the pack about how they came to be together. Stiles didn't feel quite ready yet to tell the pack about his secret, about his weakness. He dreaded what Scott would do, what he would say. How did your best friend react to the fact that you'd been harming yourself for years, that they'd never noticed, even after getting Super Sniffer powers? In the end they had agreed to just try to play the whole thing casually – Stiles was totally capable of casual, thank you _very _much – and hope it blew over without too many questions asked.

Yeah, well, it was a shot in the dark, but hey, miracles could happen, right?

Right?

So in that moment when every eye was trained on them, Derek reached over to Stiles and grabbed his hand, settling himself comfortably on the couch. Then, as if nothing unusual was happening he dove right into pack business. Wow, Derek was really smooth. Like, completely natural. It was like that one time Derek had flirted his way into the Sheriff's office way back when – and wow that is really irritating to think about now that Stiles' feelings are out in the open, he was totally schmoozing like the big monster he is.

At one point Derek started stroking his thumb lightly over Stiles' knuckles as he held it. At another point Stiles scooted closer to Derek unconsciously and leaned his head against the Alpha's shoulder. Scott's eyebrows seemed to have disappeared into his hairline at that point, jaw unhinged and gaping, but the rest of the pack was, surprisingly, taking it in stride.

The Alpha Pack had been pretty quiet lately, so there wasn't a whole lot of pack talk needed. Derek had decided that finding out some more about the Alpha Pack would be wise so he asked Stiles to see if he could dig up a record of them from anywhere at the station. Scott offered to help – it was _so_ not an obvious way to interrogate Stiles about Derek, _not at all_ – and they made plans for the next Thursday after school. The rest of the werewolves would have a training session to make sure they hadn't lost any edge in their fighting skills during the lull between confrontations.

Pack business wrapped up fairly quickly after those tasks were assigned and despite the amused and somewhat smug looks still being directed their way no one actually said anything to Derek or Stiles about the rather obvious PDA. As they were leaving that night Stiles heard Allison snickering loudly, snorting a little as she tried to pause long enough to toss incredulously at Scott. "You seriously never saw that they liked each other? How could you possibly have missed that?"

At least there was some affection in there, mixed with the laughing disbelief.

Scott muttered some sort of non-answer, his face lit with embarrassment and confusion as they left.

Stiles stood for a second frowning into the air as he tried to figure out how Allison, and apparently the rest of the pack, had known before he did. He was pulled from his thoughts by the pair of well-muscled arms that wrapped around him from behind and the nose that buried itself in his neck.

Derek took a few moments to breath over his teenager's neck, inhaling the deeper nuances of Stiles' unique scent and when his voice came out it was muffled by Stiles sweatshirt.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm good," Stiles answered with a smile, hand reaching up to grasp one of the wrists that crossed over his abdomen, enjoying the feel of whipcord muscles and hard tendons as they flexed and shifted beneath his grip. _More than good, right now._

Derek turned him around so they were facing each other and he looked deep into his eyes, searching. Stiles felt like Derek was seeing his soul. Maybe he was. Freaky werewolf powers and all.

"You weren't alright earlier. I could smell the fear and panic on you."

Stiles shuffled his feet, feeling just a _little_ awkward from all the soul staring. And it was now a thing. Soul Staring. Staring of the Soul. Yep. That definitely happened in his life. With his Alpha. Oh, that was a wonderful thing to say. _His _Alpha_. His_. No one else's. Yeah, totally a thing.

"I was just worried that they would find out more than I wanted them to, y'know. But it went over fine and apparently with the exception of Scott – which considering how long I've known him, really shouldn't surprise me as much as it does – everyone was just waiting for us to get together."

Which was pretty thrilling in its own way. Though it did irk him a little. He was certain he had been totally inconspicuous about his feelings. Freakin' werewolves. And Lydia.

Probably mostly Lydia.

He had a sneaking suspicion she had figured it out first and spread the news to the rest of the pack. They weren't exactly known for figuring things out themselves.

Derek tried, and failed, to hide his amused chuckling at the fact that his pack had known already. The sound made Stiles grin madly and dissolve into his own giggle fit. Relief rolled off of him in waves of content, the heat of affection and understanding melting away the anxious cold that'd settled into his sternum. It was the kind of laugh that makes your sides hurt and eyes water. The sight of Stiles being so carelessly happy warmed Derek's heart.

As Stiles fought to calm his laughter, breaths coming rather quickly, Derek stepped even closer to him and trailed his fingers over the younger man's smooth jawline for a moment, marveling at the feel of his pulse quickening at the touch. The laughter cut off rather sharply on a ragged gasp as Stiles' stared somewhat hopefully, uncertainly up into Derek's maelstrom concealing eyes.

Gently, slowly, as if savoring the movement, the very action itself, the werewolf tilted his face up so he couldn't mistake the purpose of that touch. The intense stare got heart pounding deep and hard against his ribs, his skin prickled with goose flesh as a shiver ran over him, Derek's nostrils flaring as he took in the heat and spike in arousal fluttering just above the skin like a mirage.

The helpless love in Derek's eyes was simply stunning. Stiles wasn't sure he would ever be used to seeing it, hoped he never would be, because then there wouldn't be this intense overwhelming sensation that took over him. Something like this isn't everyday, isn't so common that he could forget about it, or not take notice. He may never get used to it, thank god, but he wouldn't ever be able to unsee it, either.

That meant that if it ever ended, he would know what those dark undersea forest colored eyes looked like filled with such heat, such tenderness, and if they were barren it would kill him.

He didn't want to lose this.

Then those stormy eyes were darkening, lids falling as Derek leaned towards Stiles and their lips met in a gentle, innocent kiss. Stiles felt heat shiver up his spine as soon as the contact was made, and took a moment to sigh into the contact, eyes drifting shut, before he leaned into the kiss eagerly, resting one hand on Derek's chest, over his heart, feeling the steady, deep beating of the organ, while the other traveled up a steel corded arm to tangle in his thick hair. Derek responded by deepening the kiss and wrapping his arms more thoroughly around Stiles, careful not to squeeze too hard, to keep his fingers smoothly curved instead of clawed into soft young flesh possessively, marked for him. _Mine._ Stiles gave a small, breathy hum when Derek's tongue pressed against his lips, a sharp breath following a patter of the heart, and Derek took the opportunity to delve into Stiles' mouth with enthusiasm and claiming.

Derek's mouth filled with the taste of warm flesh and the aftertaste of whatever kind of candy bar that Stiles must have eaten on the way over to the pack meeting. His nose filled with the scent of Axe body wash and deodorant, the cheap laundry soap stinging just a little in the back of his throat, making him want to sneeze, but held back by the strange earthy, youthful scent of overall Stiles. The absence of the coppery, bloody tang caused a growling rumble of approval, of encouragement to leave his lips to Stiles' mouth, buzzing over his teeth and gums, stuttering his breath, causing a soft moan and a full body shudder.

If he could have spoken in that moment, Stiles would have sworn that the sounds he made were very manly. He would have been lying.

Didn't mean that if asked later, he wouldn't deny any girly sounds. He was very macho.

So macho that Jackson would be jealous.

… Yeah.

Reluctantly, Stiles pulled away after a few minutes, lungs laboring to draw in oxygen and heart pounding steadily, quickly from his ribcage to reverberate against Derek's thick chest. His lips tingled, swollen and hot, pulsing with his very active heart – wow, this was some cardio workout – mouth feeling both numb and too full of feeling. His tongue was tripping over his teeth trying to lick the lightning bolts out of his poor abused lips.

Was it supposed to feel like this? Because if this was what kissing was like all the time, then it was no wonder Scott was attached to Allison's mouth all the time, like a barnacle to a boat. Or maybe it was just Derek.

Yeah, it was probably just Derek.

"Derek, I have to get home," he really didn't want to. "My dad will be wondering where I am."

Derek grudgingly released Stiles, switching to a grip on his elbow, thumb pressed just so to feel that reassuring beat, and walked with him to the door. He stole one last kiss, letting himself press his lips and nose to temple for a huffing breath before watching Stiles walk away from him and to his jeep. This would be the first night since Ground Zero that Derek didn't stay with Stiles through the night. They were both a little nervous about it but Stiles knew that they couldn't keep hiding Derek in his room without his dad noticing.

Well, he knew it intellectually.

The night passed smoothly, if a bit jumpily, and when Stiles woke up he marked another day clean on his calendar. Seven days since Ground Zero.

A lifetime to go.

* * *

Thursday came around quickly and Stiles met Scott in front of the police station as planned. They walked in casually, well, as casually as they did anything, but everyone figured that any time Scott and Stiles were together they were up to something, and asked to see the sheriff. They also happened to know that the sheriff wasn't there at the moment so when the officer behind the desk informed them of that fact Stiles feigned surprise.

Seriously, his acting skills should be considered legendary. The guy behind the desk was _clearly_ buying his act.

Maybe he should consider a career?

Right, maybe just try to survive high school first.

"Oh, well, I guess, I must have heard him wrong. He must have asked me to meet him at 5 o'clock, not 4. Sorry, man. Can we wait for him in his office? Please?"

Cue winning smile and…

With a look from the desk jockey that clearly communicated 'I really don't want to deal with a couple of teenager's right now so don't cause me any trouble' Stiles and Scott found themselves being let into the back of the station. They went straight to the sheriff's office and Stiles quickly locked the door behind them. It wouldn't keep out the sheriff since he had a key, but it would keep out everyone else.

Well, besides superhuman werewolf baddies, but y'know, what were the chances of that?

Right, well, since he was currently sitting with The Ultimate Tempter of Fate, that was a really bad way to be thinking. Anything that could go wrong, did go wrong, when you were with Scott.

"Alright, here's the plan," Stiles whispered quickly. "I can get into my dad's computer easy, so I'll see if I can dig anything up on there. You start in on those file cabinets. We have at least half an hour before dad gets back from patrol."

"Dude, why are you whispering? There's literally no one close enough to hear you besides me," Scott replied, brow furrowed before he turned with a roll of his eyes. He obligingly went over and opened the first file cabinet as he talked though, so Stiles counted it as a win. He sat down at his dad's desk and started his own search without another word.

After twenty minutes Stiles heard a very audible, frustrated sigh.

"Man, there's nothing here. Are you having any luck on the computer?"

"Nope, nada. I've pretty much exhausted every place I can look on here too. It's like Deucalion and his pack don't even exist," he rubbed a frustrated hand back over his hair and face before leaning forward on the desk again. "You'd think people like that would at least have a misdemeanor or something on their records, right? You can't be that evil and not on the wrong side of the law, right? I mean, even Derek has a record and he's one of the good guys. Heck, _we _have a record, thanks to Jackson."

At the mention of Derek there was a very sudden and noticeable charge of curiosity in the air.

Scott slowly turned to Stiles with a growing grin and asked slyly, "So, speaking of Derek, want to tell me what happened there?"

"Uh…would you take 'no' for an answer?" Stiles responded with a slight plea in a suddenly tired voice.

He hadn't had time to concoct a fake story – a wan hope that he wouldn't need one had held him back – for when things changed between him and Derek.

The look Scott gave him made it very clear that, "No," would not be an acceptable answer, and he was kind of an idiot for even suggesting it. There was also a hint of worry in those furrowed brows as he caught the sudden mood shift, frowning a little at the acrid scent of exhaustion.

Stiles' fears were confirmed when Scott added to his look by saying, "I'm your best friend. I have certain rights. One of which includes getting the story before anyone else does."

Stiles cleared his throat uncomfortably as he tried to think of a plausible explanation.

Ah, what the hell.

"Well, honestly," he started, thinking it better just to not lie, just to omit certain facts. "Derek just happened to come across me at a time when I was feeling a little down. He cheered me up – I know, I know exactly how that sounds, don't you give me that extremely confused puppy look, you giant potato – and as we were talking he might have – maybe – could be – may have confessed to me," Scott's expression was skeptical and Stiles rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Yes, _he _confessed. I was kinda in shock too, gotta say, and well… I've liked him for a while," which Scott should have known, since he was a best friend, with _rights._ Stiles was pretty sure that it was actually Lydia who knew first, because, who was he kidding? Lydia knew everything. "So we decided to start a relationship. Try a relationship. There is relations," Scott opened his mouth, brows furrowed again in disapproval and Stiles once again cut him off. "Not _relations, _Scott, jeez. Give me a break. There is no statutory raping happening. Remember Kate? Derek kind of has more reason than most to be against the whole underage thing. So, _relations_, are not happening. And honestly, there's nothing too dramatic about the whole story. Really."

Scott looked at him accusingly, worry and confusion warring for equal control of his features. "Dude, why would you even try to lie to a werewolf?"

Stiles gulped, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "It wasn't a lie. It's all true."

"It may mostly be true, but you should have heard your heartbeat when you told me that it was 'nothing too dramatic'. Whatever happened was much more than you're making it out to be. You're just lucky you weren't lying about having… _y'know. _I would so tell your dad. I mean, it's _Derek._"

Stiles felt a moment of flash boiling fury bubble out of his stomach and into his chest.

"_Derek? _What's wrong with Derek? He's been there for me! Certainly around more than you. Scott, what do you know about Derek? Where do you –"

"Stiles? What the hell are you doing on my computer? And what is Scott doing in my files?"

At the sound of the sheriff's very angry sounding voice Stiles froze, the winds of righteous anger blowing right out of his sails. He was still looking at Scott and he wondered briefly if Scott's look of shocked panic was mirrored on his own features.

"Hey, dad," he choked out. "We were just waiting for you and we got bored. I thought maybe I could read up on some of your sheriffing techniques. You know, in case I ever need to solve a mystery. You know how I like me some mysteries. They're so… mysterious," he stated lamely, wanting to crack his skull against the desk. "I wanted to prepare for them better," he let out a weak burst of laughter that died almost the instant it left his lips. It sounded reminiscent of a dying goose.

_God, just kill me now. _

Stiles was talking a mile a minute as his brain worked frantically to get him out of this situation, to come up with something, _anything_.

It came up blank.

Of all the times…

Where were his legendary acting skills when he really needed them?

The sheriff's gaze shifted over to Scott, ignoring the idiot who had taken the place of his son for a moment, thankfully, so that Stiles could wallow adequately in his lack of _everything _in that moment.

"Scott, can you leave us please? I need to talk to my son alone."

"Yes. Sorry, sir. I'll leave," Scott briefly looked back at Stiles with what appeared to be sympathy and a little bit of hurt confusion, but then he ducked out of the room. As he walked back out of the station Scott winced as he heard the sheriff start yelling at his son.

Was he being a bad friend?

"You think, after 17 years, that I can't tell when you're lying? Stiles, I'm the sheriff! More importantly, I'm your father! Give me some credit for not being as gullible as you seem to think I am. You're not 12 anymore, you can't just cute your way out of this. I want to know what you are getting into and I want to know why."

"Dad I… I can't tell you," he ran his hand slowly over the back of his head, squeezing at the nape of his neck in apprehension. "I'm sorry. It wasn't anything really important, and we didn't find anything anyway. We've put everything back where we found it, so…" Stiles voice trailed off, his eyes felt hot and wet with the lie. He hated this, hated having to lie to his dad, to the man who was really the only family he had left, who had raised him all on his own after… just after. He found he couldn't look at his dad as he spoke; afraid of the disapproval that was most certainly written on his face.

The sheriff's voice when it came again was quiet and full of weary, resigned sadness. "Son, I don't even know who I'm dealing with anymore. I don't know how to deal with you or what to think. I did everything I could to raise you right after… after your mom, and now all I can do is try to figure out where I went wrong. I look at you, and I don't know who you are. Where did you go, Stiles? I'm disappointed, in you, in me. What did I do wrong that you can't trust me anymore? That you have to sneak around doing damn illegal things and you can't even come to me for help? Am I not trustworthy, do you not want me around? What? Tell me how I can get through to you."

"You didn't –" Stiles voice broke, he sniffled, running his hand under his nose, blinking hard and fast to try and keep the tears at bay. He tried again, "You didn't do anything wrong, dad. This is all on me. I'm sorry. I really, really am. I wish I could tell you everything but I just can't. There're a lot of this that I just can't, they are things that I can't… they aren't mine, dad. A lot of the stuff I'm doing, it's not about me and I just… I'll just go home and consider myself grounded," it wasn't enough, no, not nearly enough for what Stiles was doing to his father. God, he was a horrible son. What would his mom think?

He was ruining _everything_.

The sheriff nodded briefly and turned away from Stiles, cutting something deep inside the teen, cold seeping throughout his body. He ached all over, and suddenly he was so, so heavy, his body had aged so quickly, without his noticing. All that weight was back, and he had nothing to lean on. Oh god, he hated this.

It was clear the conversation was over. Stiles slowly, creakily, he weighed as much as the oldest mountain he was sure, and felt just as cold, stood up from his dad's desk and walked out the door muttering one last, "I'm sorry," on his way. It seemed the only things he ever said to his dad were apologies and lies.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry..._

* * *

Derek waited impatiently at Stiles' house for Stiles to return from his mission. He paused for a moment. Did he really just think about this as a mission? Stiles was 17 years old, he shouldn't be even connected to the word, let alone the actual meaning. Life was so messed up, but it wasn't like it was a dangerous mission, or task, or anything. It was, however, still the longest Stiles had been out of Derek's sight other than school or sleep since _that_ night, and he didn't like that one bit. He brightened a little, as much as it is possible for Derek to brighten, when he heard the sound of Stiles' Jeep pulling in at last. He didn't even register the more violent turn in, or the harder braking that sounded from the front of the house as he parked. Derek was on his feet and headed to the door before the engine had even cut off.

He heard the Jeep door creak open right as he was opening the front door and he immediately started asking questions, even as he took a deep breath of his Stiles' scent.

"What did you find? Anything useful? Anything at all? Where's Scott?"

Derek stopped long enough to really get a good look at Stiles, and finally let what it was he was scenting register in his mind. If he thought it would help, he would have snarled and secreted the teenager away to hide from whatever had caused the tears and stress woven throughout the normally wonderfully earthen smell that was Stiles. He looked like he was being crushed by the weight of the world, shoulders curved in, hands rubbing at his wrists subconsciously, eyes averted to the ground. He was swaying slightly on his feet as if reeling from shock, weakness plain in his long, sinewy muscles. As quickly as he could, Derek closed the distance between them. One of his hands went to Stiles' shoulder and the other to the small of his back, holding him steady, supporting him. Carrying some of that endless weight.

"Stiles, what happened? What's wrong?"

"My dad…I – I keep disappointing my dad. I'm trying to do the right thing, fight the good fight. Keep on for the good guys, and my dad thinks he's failed me as a parent. He thinks he did something wrong and it turned me into someone he can't handle. How could he think that? Dad's perfect, he's always been exactly who I've needed him to be, he's always been… Why's everything going so wrong? I can't… I'm a terrible son. I lie to him all the time and I can't fix it," Stiles looked into Derek's eyes pleadingly, the hollow glaze that covered those chocolate orbs made equal parts of the werewolf whimper in worry and growl in anger. "Derek, how do I fix this? I can't lose my dad. I just can't. Please. I can't."

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles' shaking shoulders and pressed a light kiss into his fuzzy, soft hair. "We'll figure it out, Stiles. I won't let you lose your dad. It's going to be okay."

"I'm scared Derek."

"Don't be," Derek murmured as he rubbed slow comforting circles into Stiles' back, pressing his nose to the teenager's temple, lips against the top of his cheekbone, feeling him breathe.

Stiles sunk his head to rest on Derek's shoulder, his hands clenching into the Alpha's shirt as he buried his face into the fabric. He couldn't work up the strength to look Derek in the eyes as he said his next words. He had to say them though. If he didn't… It was just better in the end if he told him.

"No, you don't understand, Derek. I'm scared because right now I can't get the thought out of my head that – I'm sorry about this by the way, really, I'm really, really sorry, I keep screwing everything up – I still have a razor upstairs," Derek froze, heart aching sharply, but Stiles just kept going. His voice was almost analytically blank as he just kept adding to the cutting pain growing in Derek's chest. "I keep thinking of how quickly this feeling would go away if I just went and grabbed it. I keep remembering the feel of it on me. I can't get it out of my head. The fact that you're physically holding onto me is the only thing stopping me from going up right now and digging the razor into my skin."

Derek was trying desperately to reign in his feelings as Stiles continued on. Stiles' voice was coming faster and getting higher with every word as he visibly inched towards a full blown panic attack. That apathetic tone was slowly losing to the ever pressing need to lean on someone else, to share an insurmountable burden, to have that wall at his back to keep the attacks from coming at him from all sides.

"I feel like I'm drowning, Derek. I can't breathe. It's like I'm being crushed by something and the only way to relieve the pressure is with that stupid razor hidden upstairs. I'm terrified of what I'll do if I get ahold of it, Derek. Help me. Please, please, help me, Derek. Don't let me go."

Derek made a concentrated effort not to crush the teenager in his arms by gripping him too tightly. It broke his heart to hear the terror in Stiles' voice and it petrified him to realize that he had no way to help the boy except to just keep holding him. He had the presence of mind to pick Stiles up and get him up the stairs and into his room but beyond that there was nothing to do but support Stiles. Derek laid them both down on Stiles' bed and Stiles instantly tightened his grip on Derek. He had stopped talking but his breathing was coming in fast and short. In Derek's arms the teenager trembled and shook as he tried to ride out the fear and stress that was gripping him.

The teenager's skin was flushing hot and cold with the shock to his system, his lungs huffing and jerking as he tried to breath steadily, his hands sweating and clammy were gripping Derek's arms and shirt with desperation. He was pressed as close as he could get to the unnatural heat of the bigger, broader body that was trying to enshroud him, to hide him from the big world that was pressing down on him, trying to break him. His heart was pumping madly as he tried to pull himself together, spots riding on the edges of his vision, tears leaking slowly, pathetically from his squeezed shut lids as he pressed his face into Derek's shirtfront, trying to concentrate on the steady heartbeat before him and the rumbling of his chest as he spoke. He couldn't understand the words, but the tone, the soft stroking of large, strong hands over his thin back, slowly moving over ribs and vertebrae as if counting to make sure he had them all, were steadying him more than anything else.

The closest word Stiles could think of to convey what he felt was hollow, and even that wasn't quite right. He somehow managed to be both empty and overfilled with an aching, acidic, stretching pain at the same time. His fingers jerked into fists, joints trembling and creaking as his fingertips dug into the soft flesh of his palms. The cotton of Derek's shirt that had gotten caught in the spastic action squeaked quietly with pressure, digging awfully underneath his short, bitten nails. Each muscle inside of him seized and pulled taut as he tried to physically force himself to stay with Derek, to hold himself perfectly still, not to struggle or shout or claw. To keep Derek from knowing just how difficult this was. It was so hard not to push away from those comforting arms and run to the razor in the next room. Every breath he took felt like he was just drawing in more of the need, and that felt like inhaling glass, like he was shredding his insides holding himself back, he almost wanted to just stop breathing, so that the horrible feeling would go away, or to take those few steps to the weapon he had hidden. The knowledge of how close he was to being able to find peace haunted him, sizzled like bile in the back of his throat, burning with the tearing of his insides like tears in scorching dry eyes.

Just a single cut was all he needed.

It didn't even have to be big. Even just a paper cut, really, could instantly lift the throbbing that he felt all the way to his bones. Just one room away from him was the blade. It was like a physical presence in his mind screaming at him to react.

The screaming in the back of his mind that it was never _just one _was being drowned out by the wet thumping of his heart, the spikes that were growing from his molars and digging through his skull, the claws he had miraculously grown that were not quite piercing, and that made it all worse. Even so small a thing would have won him over, would have put this horrible agony behind him, but…

If he hadn't been clenching his jaw shut he would probably have been screaming right back, but as it was he had no control over any of his muscles, over any part of his body, and a part of him was glad of this, was relieved even as he wanted to scream and cry and tear at his skin until he hit bone. The world around him faded until all he felt was the pull of the obsession, not even his harsh, painful heartbeat could reach his ears through the rush of internal screaming and uncontrollable desire. Jarring tremors rocked through his body as he struggled within himself, with himself, and the small ray of helpless hope that came from the strong arms wrapped firmly around him kept him breathing through his torment.

He could fix it all, these horrible cravings for pain would cease if he could only stand up. It wasn't that far, just a couple steps really, not so far, just there… He trampled down those thoughts; feeling a tight pressure in his chest as he forcefully let go of any thought of following through on his frightening, frantic need. Yes, it would stop the panic and the fear that were welling up in him right now, stop the anguish from tearing him apart from the inside out, but at what cost? The part of his mind – the part that wasn't fogged by this stupid need for a fruitless addiction – focused on the look Derek would get if Stiles broke. What if he lost the love in those eyes that he'd only just recently gotten? What if he looked at him without emotion, not even disappointment? He couldn't handle that. If he broke, he would _break. _He couldn't break. He _wouldn't_ break. He pushed past the clouded agony and the deep pull of a forbidden desire until the only section of his small little world that he paid any attention to was the soft murmured sounds emitting from his Alpha's lips. The heat of his words soothed some of the ache in his bones, settling his skin, sinking deep into him to tend the burning in his lungs and heart.

He would hold on.

For Derek.

Derek realized that he was muttering small words of love and encouragement into Stiles' ear, and he wondered idly when he had started doing that. He didn't recall ever making the conscious choice to even say anything. He was glad that his unconscious mind had made the decision for him, he decided, as he felt the frightening prey-beat of Stiles' heart slow with the steady influx of his soft, calm intonations. The constant shivering was down to random spasming shudders, his breaths were coming farther apart, and deeper, less shaky. He tried to ignore the dampness that was seeping into the collar of his t-shirt, of the hot, muggy breathes that made his skin sticky beneath the material. He knew any acknowledgment of it would only upset Stiles all the more. The boy seemed to have the stupid idea in his head that he was weak, that he was a bother, a disappointment, and Derek knew that drawing attention to the tears leaking from him would only highlight that perceived flaw.

He held back his own alarm as the smell of illness suddenly took over the majority of the panic and the anxiety that had been wafting off of the teen, and held himself still for Stiles, held himself steady. Stiles needed him to support him, and this was all he could do at the moment, was offer comfort, and he wasn't going to mess this up.

Not this.

So for now he would just continue silently holding the shuddering, shaking teen. It seemed to be helping Stiles, so he would wait, and continue on until Stiles was past this hurdle.

He would wait, as long as he had to.

For Stiles.

Long into the night the two lay intertwined on a bed that was honestly too small for two people, especially when one of them was as broad of stature as the werewolf was, but he didn't care how awkward it was, how cramped. He liked being this close to Stiles, even considering the circumstances, he just worried about the teens discomfort in the morning without supernatural healing. He would definitely be sore when he woke.

As each hour passed Stiles' breathing got a little more even, a little more normal and his shaking got a little better. The scent of sickness and distress had waned some, being replaced with exhaustion and sweat salt. Sometime around three in the morning, Derek was relieved to hear a soft snore that signaled to him that Stiles was out of danger. At least, in that moment.

In the morning, Stiles told Derek he never actually had a razor. He had just been confused in all his panic. But this time, this time, Derek noticed the slight change in heart rate, was paying exact attention to everything about his teenager, and he recalled the moment Stiles had told him he had given Derek all his blades and his heart had beat just a little faster that day too. The werewolf cursed himself, knowing that he needed to stay vigilant for Stiles' sake, needed to be strong, to not get distracted, because then he could come back and not worry nearly as much about the boy. He had to remember that Stiles was hurting as well as helping himself. He had to remember that Stiles was his own enemy in this, and it was _Derek's _job to make sure he didn't go too far in the negative direction. As Stiles silently got ready for school, Derek tried his best to figure out how he was going to get the boy to give up the razor he was clearly holding onto as a last resort. When Stiles left after some intensely relaxing cuddling time, Derek methodically and systematically combed every inch of Stiles' house for the elusive blade.

After he was done with all of his searching, he sat down with a stressed, contemplative expression on his features, hands clasped in front of him as he stared at them with a deep, worried frown. With a harsh, pained sigh he pressed his hands to his face, rubbing over his stubble hard to try and wipe away the ache of Change that wanted to come over him with trepidation.

He hadn't been able to find it.

* * *

_AN Tori: Sorry again it took so long. Blame Cher. I do. We'll get the next chapter out really soon to make up for it. Hopefully tomorrow or the next day._

_AN Cher: Sorry guys, I'm with the suck. I'm not exactly a prompt or timely kinda person on a regular basis, and this just let me extend my laziness. So, yeah. Whoops._


	4. Fading Slowly

_I am __getting real __sick and tired of being shoved into lockers by the Alpha twins, _Stiles mused, smoothing a hand gingerly over the thumping bruise on his shoulder blade as he sat on his bed, _but really, it _is_ the only interesting thing that happened throughout the day._ He was also tired of being rammed into desks or into doors. He was really starting to miss Jackson's pissy drama; he, at least, didn't cause Stiles' joints to groan in pain.

He knew that they were just doing it to start fights with his werewolves – and wasn't that funny, they really were _his,_ whenever he thought about them now – but he was a bit annoyed at the seemingly permanent bruises on his shoulders and back. The dull ache of bruises really didn't do anything for him, only pulsed with an angry heat that distracted and caused fidgeting, which then in turn caused sarcasm and word vomit. And really uncomfortable conversations with his dad when he saw them. It had been a while since lacrosse practice, or anything similar that he could use as an excuse for the abuse his body showed.

It'd been three months since the Alpha Pack had done any actual fighting with them but their little daily annoyances persisted unabated. Stiles was pretty sure that they were trying to throw in some psychological warfare or something, because it was really getting ridiculous how petty they were being, trying to rile up the pack to make them slip up. Either that, or they were just enjoying driving Stiles insane, but well, it was a bit of a toss-up really. a lot of people would point out the fact that he was already pretty crazy, and that there really wasn't any reason to drive the teenager up a wall when he really wasn't any kind of threat, but hey, semantics. But really, this cease-fire or whatever it was –including the Stiles abuse – was something that made Stiles a little bit pleased, in an odd, stare-at-Stiles-because-he's-crazy way, to know that the Alpha Pack considered him to be a part of the pack of werewolves, despite his distinctly human body.

Part of him was glad they didn't just ignore him.

Being ignored was a hollow pain that he hated almost as much as disappointing his dad, and it was still nothing compared to the days when they forgot.

The days when his dad would turn to the side, to speak to someone that wasn't there, could never be there, or when Stiles himself would see something that he found funny and had to stop himself from calling out for her to share. It was especially difficult when his dad would walk into the house with a smile on his face and a quirk to his brow, open his mouth to speak, and then get this confused expression after a glance around, before he just... shrank. The Sheriff would sink into himself, the lines on his face deepening, and he would keep silent for the night, so weary that Stiles wanted to curl up next to him like he used to, and just cry, just beg for everything to go back to the way it was _Before_.

Those were the nights when Stiles had to pull the half-filled glasses from his father's limp hands, and unclench his own enough to grab a blade.

So yeah, being ignored sucked and he was glad it wasn't happening, but he could handle it when it did.

It had been two months and three weeks since he last cut, it had been two and a half months since Stiles had even laid hand on a blade. The day after he had let slip to Derek that he still had a razor, the teenager had carefully, guiltily, removed the blade from underneath his soap and placed it instead into the glove box of his faithful Jeep. Stiles knew that Derek would look for the blade, but he had bet on the fact – the hopeful fear – that he wouldn't think to look outside of the house. He was reasonably certain – like, _duh_, of _course_ he was, because Derek _cared_ and that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying – that Derek continued to search whenever Stiles wasn't home. It was a good thing that when Stiles wasn't home it meant neither was his razor.

It _was _a good thing, no matter what that little voice in his head kept on insisting.

He would be lying if he said that his eyes weren't drawn to his glove box on occasion – like a car accident, you sometimes couldn't look away from the alluring horror and gross curiosity – but so far he hadn't even opened the compartment since putting the razor inside, not even for the candy that he had stashed in there. It was likely dying a gooey death, but he could deal with that. Those little sugary screams wouldn't break him. Nope.

Seeing the pride in Derek's eyes every day he successfully fought off the wave of agonizing desire and _want,_ was enough to convince him not to cave into the compulsion. The pressure was less now, in a way, he no longer hungered for the pain the way he had at first, but he still felt the aching pull for the cold steel against his skin and dawning clarity that it could provide. It was less of a burning need and more of a dull, queasy, query at the back of his awareness. He could ignore it for the most part and for those moments when he couldn't he had Derek, either in the flesh or in mind. It was a refreshing, giddy feeling, to have the ability to absolutely _know _that the Alpha werewolf was there for him, for any physical and emotional support.

Today though, all he could think about was how _angry_ he was at Derek, how _hurt _he was by him.

Two days previous, Derek had finally had enough of finding the bruises on Stiles' body; the aching feeling of guilt at the reminder that he'd likely painted his own across the teenager's delicate, pale skin in the past. He had given Scott and Isaac – their own Twin Puppy Faced Pudding Heads, as Stiles called them – the task of following the Alpha twins discreetly in an attempt to figure out where they lived. It was the final step before the forced, shaky, suspicious calm between the two packs would burst. Derek wanted to break the fake, plastic image of peace and deliver a warning to the Alphas. He wanted them to know without any uncertainty, with complete, full, absolute understanding, that _everyone_ in his pack – humans included – were to be left alone.

Stiles belonged to _him._

Stiles had been fine with this idea, really, perfectly fine. In fact, he had been _so_ fine with it, that he had supported it whole heartedly, because – in theory – it would lead to much less face time between him and the various hard surfaces of the school. The relationship between he and the hard places that he was being shoved into was one that had been rather constant since all of this supernatural mumbo jumbo had started up, and it really wasn't a practice that he was all that fond of. It sucked, honestly. _Ooh_, let's shove the poor human against walls, metal grates, and door jams! It'll be swell! He won't have bruises or pain or anything! Freaking Werewolves.

Then, when Scott and Isaac had returned the next day with the news of the pack's location, it had all gone south. Literally and figuratively. The Alpha pack were south of them. The planning was fine at first, basic break in and threaten pack with bodily harm strategy – which, while not very original, wasn't nearly as risky for the young Hale pack considering the majority were teenagers with little control or training in the use of their abilities – and then the shit had hit the fan.

Derek had looked Stiles in the eye and said, "We'll let you know how everything goes."

Oh, okay. Cool.

Wait.

_What?_

Oh, _so_ not happening.

For a second Stiles just stared blankly, not quite processing the words, a sense of incredulity creeping from under the surface only to then be smothered as he felt the slow build of anger inside him.

"Why am I not going to be there?" He demanded, fire burning through his veins in righteous indignation. Beneath that was the apprehensive fear of separation, of abandonment. He was a part of this pack too! "If I'm pack, then I should be at pack events. And yes, that includes fights. I'm not helpless you know. You don't get to be sheriff's son and not learn a few things about self-defense. Anyway, we're probably going to run into something like this again, and you can't just expect me to kick back and let you guys handle it. You can't assume that they aren't going to come after me, and I need to know how to work with the rest of you, and if you push me out now, it'll just set the tone. Heck, I could just yell slanderous things at them. Insults. Those hurt. I don't even have to go near them. Give me a gun or something, I can shoot. You aren't excluding me from this."

_Please don't._

Derek sighed, trying to smother the protective, possessive growl that wanted to snarl out his lips, flexing his suddenly tingling, rubbery feeling fingers to keep his claws sheathed. He didn't want anything to happen to Stiles, and he needed to warn the perpetrators away from those who were _his_. To keep himself from breaking something, rending and tearing, he started to reach out to Stiles' hand for the comfort it brought.

"I know you're not helpless," _It's me who can't protect anyone. _He pushed past the sharp ache of unhappiness and tried not to react in any way to how Stiles had shoved his hand away. "Stiles, I don't want you there because I don't want you getting hurt. You may be able to defend yourself but I don't want to risk it. We can practice pack strategy later. We don't have time for it right now."

"What about the rest of the pack? What about Allison and Lydia? They're human and you're not outlawing them from going. Don't you care if they get hurt?" Immediately after those words left his mouth, Stiles winced a little inside in self-recrimination.

Low blow.

"They're different, Stiles. Allison has been trained by hunters –" which Derek really didn't want to think about, pushing away both that and the sting of pain at the teenager's words. Of course he cared. They were pack. They were _his._ He didn't have to like them for that, but it didn't mean he wanted them hurt. "– and Lydia can protect herself far better with her magic than you can with basic human defenses."

For some reason, it felt like the word 'human' was supposed to be an insult, but it couldn't really roll off of Derek's tongue in any other way than exasperation.

Stiles heard his voice raising as he fought to get control of his feelings. He didn't know why he was getting so riled up. He was angry, yes, but he didn't want to yell at Derek. He didn't want to fight with him. He was out of control. There was a ringing, resonating prickling in the skin of his arms, calling. _It's only a short distance to the glove compartment,_ his mind informed him from within his darkness. Right now the voice wanted something far darker than a fight with his Alpha. _No, _Stiles shivered. _It's not to that point. Go away. _Aloud he practically shouted_, _"Shouldn't it be up to me if I'm willing to risk my life? Do you think I'm okay with just watching you all head towards a fight without knowing if you'll come back? Why should I be safe at home while the people I care about – my _family_ – is out there fighting for me? I should be able to protect you guys too! Don't try to shelter me; it's not going to work! Derek, I _need_ to be there. This should be my choice."

"Well it's not!" Derek roared, Alpha anger and fear searing inhumanely through his voice, giving a harsher, strange tone of _wolf _behind his words. This was _his _Stiles, _his _Mate. It was his job to protect him, and here the younger man was trying to get himself into trouble, put himself into the line of fire. The frazzled beast part of him couldn't handle the thought of what such a blow would do to him – what harm could come to Stiles if he were there – to his pack, to the oh-so young pack that was just learning what it was to be amongst those who were your own, how important it was that they had Stiles_. _His next words came out with the cold, even, commanding tone of his new Alpha instincts. And he hated it. "You are not welcome to come. I won't have you getting in the way of the fight."

Sharp, piercing, cold pain straight to his heart.

Derek regretted a lot in that moment, but mostly his own lack of control in his newer instincts, and in explaining what he was feeling, why he couldn't have Stiles there, properly.

He felt useless.

That tone drove Stiles to standing, and with numb vocal cords, burning eyes, and furious anger and biting, terrifying pain, walked out of the room. He was livid with Derek, with himself, for not trying harder to explain, for backing off, for leaving in such a way that Derek would no doubt blame himself, because he had learned that that was what Derek did when he hurt someone; hurt himself. They really weren't that different, but only one of them had visible scars.

He was pissed off at everyone else for not standing up for him, for just sitting there, gaping, probably thinking that this was the most entertaining thing to hit the market. They were probably placing bets or something, about how long he and Derek would keep it up. It hurt, thinking that perhaps they'd not spoken up for him because they agreed, that they had sat there, silent, because they completely, and totally agreed that Stiles would be useless, would no doubt muck things up and get in the way.

'Getting in the way,' Derek had called it. Stiles laughed humorlessly, choking on his roiling, gagging emotions as they burned like bile in his throat. Everyone seemed to take him for granted, he did shit for them, he did _a lot_ of shit for them. He'd disappointed his dad on more than one occasion for them, lied, stolen, broken the law, and was probably ruining his chances at college with all of stuff he'd been doing for them, all of the times he'd had to step in because they _hadn't listened._

He hadn't gotten in the way all the times he'd saved all their asses.

* * *

Derek snuck in his window later that night, hesitant and internally jittery. He had berated himself for a long while before coming to try and settle both himself and the teenager into some semblance of peace before the fight with the Alpha Pack. He didn't want to enter that fight with Stiles angry with him, but he especially didn't want to leave him hurting after their earlier altercation. The werewolf couldn't leave the teenager feeling like Derek was upset with him, that he didn't love and care for him; his inability to express himself with words was killing him, and harming Stiles. It had to stop.

Stiles didn't even look at him, he just stated with an aplomb he didn't really feel, "I've been through a hell of a lot worse with this pack than one stupid fight. Hell, I've been through worse _alone_. Remember Gerard? I'm not so fragile that I would break as easily as you act like I will. Really."

_You called me strong once, _he thought mournfully, staring at his laptop, not really seeing it. _What happened to change your opinion?_

"Stiles," Derek's voice was soft and pleading, fingers flexing against his jeans as he took in the younger man's soothing scent, staring fixedly at that smooth column of flesh that was the back of his neck. "I wish you would realize just how fragile you really are. I _know_ you're not weak. You are stronger than I am in some ways – many ways – but against an Alpha werewolf, you're no stronger than a child," there was silence for a few moments, and Derek listened to the steady, if slightly faster than the norm, heartbeat. It was as reassuring as it was unsettling. "Stiles, I'm not telling you that you can't go because I think you're going to get hurt. I'm saying you can't go because I'm not strong enough to face the thought of losing you. It's not you that's too weak, it's me," _Please protect yourself from them for me, by staying away. Please. I don't want to fail again._ "If you're there by my side I won't be able to think or fight properly because every moment I'll be afraid that the next second could be the one where I watch an Alpha tear you apart. I can't lose you," _too. _"It would kill me."

Stiles swallowed past the emotion that welled up in his throat at Derek's words, the relief, the joy, and the insurmountable, helpless love that held his anger at bay. He didn't want to lose Derek either. Couldn't he see that?

He would fall apart if something happened to Derek, too. He loved Derek just as much as if not more than Derek loved him, so why couldn't he worry for him? Why couldn't he want to protect Derek too?

Quietly, softly, wearily, not really expecting anything to change – because if there was one thing he'd gotten to know about Derek, it was that he was an incredibly stubborn ass with a thick skull – he asked, "Don't you realize that losing you would kill me too? I want to be there fighting by your side because that's where I belong. I belong with you; helping you and doing everything in my power to make sure we both come out alive. That we _all_ come out of this alive."

_I don't want to be alone._

"I'll see you after the fight," was the only response he got after a long moment of hesitant silence, and the response was just as tired, soft and mournful as his own had been.

After a minute of silence behind him, Stiles finally turned around to look at Derek, so that he could see the look on his chiseled features, could look into those turbulent eyes and find the love he'd only just come to realize, the feeling that he so relied on, only to find him already gone.

The ache in his chest doubled as he watched the curtains ruffle lightly in the unfelt breeze from the sweet night air outside.

Part of him was struggling to call out – to tell him to wait, to come back – because Stiles loved him and his arms itched and his heart ached and his eyes burned. Part of him wanted to call out that he was sorry and he wouldn't go, if only to see his face, to give him whatever he wanted so that he would stay.

All of him wanted to call out for Derek to hold him, because he was breaking apart at the seams and it was killing him to stare silently into the dark night that the Alpha had disappeared into, to take slow, even breaths to keep his heartbeat calm, to not run out to his Jeep to curl around his past. To hide away in the flesh of his arms, to cut away the pain.

Suddenly shivering with a chill that didn't come from the open window, he stood to close it.

Derek wasn't coming back that night.

No matter how much Stiles wanted him to.

* * *

The next day at school, he stubbornly avoided the entire pack despite their attempts to reason with him. Mostly he was afraid that they'd really agreed with Derek, that they didn't think he fit into every aspect of the pack, but he also was trying to bury his feeling deep into his core, to not think about the tight pull of scars, or the way that every time he shifted, he felt his shirt press against his past, and he _wanted. _

Lydia had even volunteered to stay with him instead of going with the pack, which touched him to no end, even if he really wasn't in any state to think anything through. Stiles had responded briefly only to tell her that he didn't need her pity, which he knew would hurt her, even if her perfect features didn't show it, even if she just nodded and sent back a scathingly witty response that he couldn't recall. He was sorry, but the minor guilt only brought on a longing for his own tools carved into his bones and knotted muscles. He also longed to apologize to her.

He'd do it later.

When the final bell rang Stiles watched as four werewolves and one well-trained human piled into Derek's Camaro and drove off, with a cavernous, pulsing cold feeling in his chest, and a stinging heat in his eyes. He hadn't even been able to see Derek from the angle he was at, and that caused an irrational panic to beat a rhythm in his chest.

Lydia was suspiciously absent.

Stiles waited a long couple of seconds for the Camaro to be out of sight and then he dashed for his Jeep, ignoring the gaping abyss that'd opened in his abdomen. He wouldn't let his pack do this without him, he wouldn't let Derek run into harm's way without him. Derek was going to get hurt, his best friend was going to get himself killed, Allison would go on another revenge driven rampage, Isaac would hide from himself, Boyd would staunchly refuse that he had feelings, and Erica would curl around Boyd, when she thought no one was looking, because she didn't want to lose him. They could… Just the thought of everything that could go wrong sent him into a panic.

He threw his backpack across the seat and practically dived into the vehicle. He quickly started the car and sped out of the parking lot towards the Alpha Pack fight. In his rearview mirror he thought he saw Lydia running after him telling him to stop, but he kept going. He couldn't stop, because if he did his glove compartment was right there, right in front of him. He could hear the blade singing to him over the screaming of his heart, and if he took his hands off the wheel, his eyes off the car that was several vehicles ahead of him, he would grab it, he would use it, and then he would have failed. He would have disappointed Derek, he would have become weaker than he wanted to be, than he had to be for his pack. His family.

As he drove, Stiles reached for the gun he had stored under the seat – which he had placed there the night before – with deadly intent, firmly thinking about the rubber grip that needed to be in his hand, not the cool metal that called to him. This was the tool he needed that day, the blood he was to draw if he had to, was not to be his own, it was to be another's. It would. He couldn't think about his own bloodshed if he wanted to make it to their destination.

The weapon was loaded with wolfsbane bullets that he had stolen from Allison back when Allison had been actively trying to kill Derek.

Which was _so_ something he wasn't going to think about right then.

The gun felt heavy in his hand but Stiles had been raised knowing how to shoot and he knew that when it came down to it he could easily shoot someone to protect his own pack. Well, maybe not _easily_, but he wouldn't exactly regret any of his actions, wouldn't feel any guilt. He was resolved.

He arrived at the abandoned warehouse that the Alphas were supposedly living in only to hear a very angry sounding Derek.

"Where the hell are they? Are you sure this is where the twins came?"

"Yes," Isaac's voice piped in, hesitant, a touch fearful, but pleasant. "There was no mistaking it. Besides, the whole place smells like them. They've obviously been here. Right?"

Stiles crept closer until he could look through the large door at the members of his pack all standing around in confusion and apprehension. Something was clearly wrong and Stiles didn't like the sound of things at all. Or the lack thereof, either. The silence was unsettling and creepy.

He was totally justified to think this was a bad idea, wasn't he?

There was a small shift in the wind and Stiles thought nothing of it until he suddenly saw Derek's eyes narrow slightly, hands flexing at his sides with concentration as he took a deep breath through his nose. Derek's eyes widened in shock before his head snapped up quickly and his gaze met Stiles' horrified expression. _Well, shit,_ Stiles thought as he quickly pulled his head away from the door and plastered himself to the outside wall pretending to be invisible. He was so going to get a talking to when this was done, and even if part of him was thrilled with the prospect, the rest of him really wasn't.

Derek growled loud enough for even Stiles' weak human ears to hear, and all Stiles could think about was what he would say when the angry Alpha of his pack came around the corner. He was completely ignoring the fact that something inside of him had eased with his Alpha in his sights again, just the act of tracing his visage with his eyes enough to sooth the twisting pains in his chest.

Inside the warehouse Derek had only taken a single step towards him when he caught a glimpse of something much worse than Stiles, which, in all honesty, wasn't that hard to find. The gleam of claws and fangs nestled deep in the shadows of the room. When Derek caught Kali's eye, she grinned viciously. From the other side of the room Derek heard chilling, mocking, but bizarrely charming laughter start up.

"Derek, Derek, Derek… You didn't really think that we would live somewhere so pathetic, did you? I'm rather sure that an abandoned building is a tad bit old fashioned for a werewolf den. However, it _is_ quite the fantastic place for an ambush," Derek growled at the Alphas and turned towards Deucalion's voice.

When he turned, he was met with the sight of the rest of the Alpha Pack creeping out of the darkness towards his pack. His very young, very new, very _brittle _pack. He couldn't lose them. He was so very aware of Stiles just outside, so very vulnerable with his fair, fragile skin. They had to die, so that his pack could live, could thrive, so that his Mate was no longer threatened by their presence, they should no longer exist.

They needed to _die_.

Without hesitation, Derek threw himself at the nearest Alpha with a vicious, echoing, eerie, and dual toned, growling snarl. And so the fight began.

The sound of the Alpha's call to battle had the Alpha pack snarling back in surprise at how quickly this had escalated, how fast this newly minted Alpha was beginning to resemble something like them.

Scott was at his side in an instant aiding him in his fight against the giant werewolf that the twins had become. Isaac and Allison fought Ennis while Boyd and Erica attacked Kali.

Stiles, alerted by the sounds of the conflict, had unconsciously returned to the door of the warehouse. He released the safety on his gun absently, calmly, and waited patiently for a clear shot at someone. Every hit he saw his pack take had him crying out on the inside, but he held himself steady. He had to be ready for them, for his pack. It was his job to protect them as well. He wished he could step fully into the fray and help them fight hand to hand but he knew his only chance was with the gun in his hands so he stayed put and out of danger. Just like Derek would have wanted.

See, he _could_ do things that Derek would approve of!

Derek fairly quickly noticed that Stiles was back at the door, his alluring scent catching his breath, causing ferocious protective instincts to grow until they were fit to burst inside of him. The look on the werewolf's face when he saw Stiles standing there was a perfect mix of animal fury and very human fear for Stiles' life – for the life of his _Mate_ – but he swiftly covered the emotions and tore his gaze away from him.

Looking at Stiles would only draw attention to him and that would make him a target. Derek just hoped that Stiles didn't do anything to draw attention to himself all on his own; it really was a futile hope, honestly. This was Stiles they were talking about.

No sooner than that thought crossed his mind, he heard the sharp, booming crack of a gunshot reverberating through the warehouse, sending a pang of pain through supernaturally enhanced hearing. Derek cringed and risked another glance in Stiles' direction to confirm that Stiles was in fact the one who had fired the shot. He couldn't tell who Stiles had shot, not with the majority of his attention on his own – rather large – opponent, but he could tell that whoever it was had been hit.

The snarl of fury and pain was proof enough of that.

Stiles watched Ennis fall as he rapidly prepared for another shot, the action smooth and practiced – hours at a time on the range guaranteed that – heart beating slowly, steadily in his chest, a comforting accompaniment to his frenzied, primal enemies.

Isaac and Allison were staring in shock down at Ennis as he clutched at the wolfsbane bullet imbedded in his side, snarling at anything and everything around him. Isaac was the first to snap out of it and his eyes shot over to the human teenager to catch his gaze. Stiles winked at him and coolly leveled the gun at Kali, who had completely stopped fighting Boyd and Erica in favor of going after Stiles. She was halted in her tracks – halted straight into the _ground _– as Erica tackled her viciously from behind and Boyd helped keep her pinned to the floor moments later.

They looked rather pleased with themselves, really.

Stiles shifted his attention to the twins – or maybe, when they were in their combined form, he should call them The Twin – now that Kali appeared taken care of. Derek and Scott were still fighting furiously, almost frantically. Derek caught Stiles eyes a few times and each time Stiles noticed the death glare coming from his Alpha, although he was mollified by the aching love that also reflected at him from within those crimson orbs. Scott on the other hand merely looked impressed by Stiles, like, 'Dude, that's my best friend!' and even flashed him a thumb's up at one point. Finally, Stiles saw a clear shot at The Twin and with a slow release of breath, he took it. They broke apart into their separate bodies the instant the bullet hit and Stiles didn't bother paying attention to which twin had actually taken the bullet.

The reason he didn't pay attention to this seemingly important detail, was that, quite suddenly, he noticed that someone's breath was brushing against the back of his neck.

"Well, I gather that perhaps there was actually a reason you were… _included_ in this pack to begin with. You are apparently a touch more dangerous than I thought," Deucalion murmured from behind him darkly, a frightening rumble behind his words. "Although, truly, that's like saying a goldfish is more dangerous than a guppy."

Stiles gasped harshly, causing Derek's eyes to widen as he whipped his head around to look at Stiles. The twins were no longer a threat as one rushed to the aid of the other. Ennis was on the ground as he tried to dig the bullet out of his side and Kali was still pinned down with two Betas sitting on top of her. Ethan ignored the tension around him as he struggled to pick up Aiden – his family, his other half –and he quickly left the warehouse without a second glance to the rest of his pack; caring only about his twin.

After that, no one in the warehouse moved. The silence permeated both packs as they all tried to process the stalemate they were in. Deucalion could kill Stiles in a heartbeat and everyone knew it, but Deucalion also was smart enough to realize that his entire pack was down and if he killed the human he wouldn't stand much chance against five angry werewolves – and oh, that was _interesting_, Derek's scent was all _over_ this one – and a pissed off hunter. Instead, he slowly wrapped his hand around Stiles' throat, claws extended in threat, and enjoyed the brief stutter in the boy's heart, the minute fluctuation in his scent before he calmed himself. A remarkable feat. How interesting, truly.

He couldn't kill the boy and expect to survive, but he could certainly use him as leverage to get out.

Deucalion started walking backwards slowly. Stiles was forced to walk back with him to avoid the claws digging into his neck, which, hey, not cool. As they neared the door Stiles was desperately trying to come up with an idea to get out of this mess.

Something, anything!

His eyes connected once again with Derek's and he saw nothing in them but panic and agony, all centered in that all-encompassing, aching love for him. _At least he's not angry with me anymore,_ thought Stiles bitterly. _I don't think I could take that._

"Let him go," threatened a high, husky, feminine yet incredibly intimidating voice from behind Deucalion, causing his hackles to virtually rise. Stiles couldn't see her, but he would recognize Lydia's voice anywhere. Sweet, sweet Lydia, who was so going to hold this over him until the end of eternity. Deucalion barely reacted but his claws did briefly tighten on Stiles' neck drawing a weak strangled gasp from his throat and a low growl from Derek.

Everything happened very quickly after that. Derek gave a brief, almost unnoticeable nod to Lydia and the next thing Stiles knew he was standing on his own with a writhing Deucalion at his feet. Lydia was standing triumphantly holding up a syringe and she smiled beatifically, satisfaction written all over her features as she told him with a rather blasé attitude, "I injected him with Mountain Ash."

Stiles' grin equaled hers and he turned back to the warehouse to soak in their victory only to be met with the sight of Kali finally tearing herself free from Erica and Boyd, throwing them to the ground, and charging towards Stiles with a furious cry. He stepped back involuntarily and tripped over Deucalion behind him. Out of nowhere, Derek, still not healed from his fight with The Twin, was meeting Kali's attack head-on and Stiles watched in horror as Kali's claws plunged straight through Derek's abdomen. Derek slumped to the ground coughing up blood and Kali kicked him out of the way.

Oh god no.

No, no, no, no, no, no –

Scott and Isaac had reached Kali by then and were soon joined by Boyd and Erica. They got her back down and Lydia raced to their side and plunged the needle into Kali to incapacitate her.

Stiles was on his feet and rushing to Derek before he had even consciously thought about it. Dropping to his knees beside the werewolf, his hands fluttered in the air above the werewolf momentarily, before he gingerly rolled Derek onto his back and made a wounded noise at the damage that had been done. Derek groaned weakly, wetly and blood came trickling out of his mouth.

"This is all my fault, Derek. I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you," Stiles could hear the hysteria in his own voice as he stumbled over his apologies. "I'm sorry. Oh my god."

Derek weakly grasped Stiles' hand and squeezed, trying to assure the boy that he wasn't to blame. Then Derek passed out. The rest of the pack had arrived by then and they were carefully picking Derek up and carrying him to his car.

Allison hovered for a moment behind Stiles who was still kneeling on the ground mumbling apologies. "Stiles? We need to get him to Deaton. Are you coming?"

"Yeah," Stiles replied after a pause, on autopilot as he felt the cold seeping into his bones to pull his muscles apart, tendons grinding together, cartilage crackling like popcorn over an open flame. He suddenly could only hear his wetly thudding heart in his ears, face pale and blank as he tried to remember what he was supposed to say. "I've got my Jeep here; I'll meet you guys there."

Satisfied with his answer, and honestly in a hurry herself, Allison gave a quick look around to all of the fallen Alphas to assure that they wouldn't be getting up soon, and then she followed after the pack and her badly wounded Alpha. She didn't think overmuch about the sudden shift in Stiles.

Stiles was up and in his Jeep within minutes and he drove slowly towards the vet office. As he drove his mind kept repeating, _All your fault.__All your__fault. Derek is probably dying, maybe already dead, and you caused it._

_This is all your fault. You'll never get forgiveness. You should have listened. Why do you never listen?_

Stiles let out an angry yell and slammed his hand onto the steering wheel in frustration as that sweet siren song of agony and dependence, of comfort and chaos whispered about his skin, twisting his needs to suit the addiction. Stiles yanked the wheel to the side and screeched to the edge of the deserted road. He pressed his hands against his ears and tried to shut out the voice that told him Derek was dying because of him, that the sweet sting of steel would sooth him and center him to think more clearly.

_If you hadn't shown up to that fight Derek might not have gotten hurt. Wouldn't be dying._ The voice said, accusingly, wailing, because all of him – even the darkest parts – loved the Alpha just as much. _Derek might not by dying,_ he argued back, squeezing his eyes shut.

He wasn't quite aware of his hand moving towards the glove compartment and practically ripping off the door in his haste to stop that horrible, honest and brutal part of him from speaking. He didn't want to hear, he didn't want to feel his mind whirring around in distress. He wanted the calm, the sweet, sharp clarity that came with the blade to his skin, parting his flesh to release the aching, burning self-loathing and chaotic thoughts.

He froze for a second as the metallic glint of the razor stared back at him, then with shaking hands he reached just a little further and wrapped his fingers around the cool metal.

_Oh god Derek, I'm so sorry._

His hands ceased their trembling instantly as he made contact and he greedily pulled the blade to him. The song turned into a croon and he already felt himself crumbling against himself. He was alone, had no help, had torn down the wall at his back with his own foolish hands. He didn't deserve Derek's support, anyway. Didn't deserve _Derek_. He was too weak for that kind of thing. He tore off his sweatshirt and with a steady, if a bit stiffened with tension, hand, and a voice reminding him of his guilt singing out for pain, he started to carve into his arm. He watched the crimson liquid start to drip and flow down, and as he kept cutting he found that he could drown the voice with blood.

_I'm sorry Derek, I love you._

* * *

Derek jerked awake as he was lain down onto Deaton's cold examination table. He snarled in fury for a moment before recognizing the scents that hovered around him; his pack surrounded him. His eye faded from red to a pain stricken green maelstrom. He shuddered as Deaton cut open his shirt revealing the wound to the cold air around him, heart pumping more furiously, which only served to cause the bleeding to increase. Derek's eyes darted around the room meeting each pair of frightened pack eyes but he couldn't find the pair of eyes he needed. He needed the confirmation that his Stiles was alright, was healthy and _alive_.

"Stiles?" He managed to ask, speaking felt like chewing glass.

Scott stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, careful to avoid any wounds.

"He's fine. You saved him. He should be here soon."

Derek absorbed this information and seemed to process it for a second. Scott was surprised to see horror overwhelm the pain in Derek's eyes. For a terrifying moment Derek started to try to get up, blood slapping wetly onto the concrete floor of the examination room as it was forced out of his body at the violent action. He lurched halfway off the table before six pairs of hands managed to push him back down.

"What the _hell_ Derek?" Scott bit out, eyes wide with shock and worry as he watched the wound before him pulsing out more red and the continued paling of his Alpha's features. "You're half dead; you can't just get up and go. Stiles will be here soon."

"Let go!" Derek yelled, with a lot more energy than he thought he had, than he knew he had, but he could feel his instinct prowling with premonition and terror and adrenaline kept him conscious. "You don't understand. None of you understand. You need to find Stiles! Now!"

"Derek, he just took a different car than us. It's not a big deal. What's got you so freaked out?" Boyd inquired.

* * *

Stiles stared in horror at what he'd done.

The voice was silent.

No soft, croon, no song of steel and flesh and blood.

He could barely hear his own heart beating.

Sticky, cloying blood coated his car and his body and for the first time he realized with terror and a strange sort of almost apathy, that the bleeding wasn't stopping. He had been so desperate to drown out the voice that he hadn't realized the cuts he was making were deeper than he had ever dared cut before.

He reached for the sweatshirt that he had discarded and tried to staunch the blood flow but within minutes his once gray sweatshirt was stained as red as the rest of him. Funny, he could almost hear the ocean, and his eyes were starting to feel really tired. What time was it? It certainly was getting dark fast.

Stiles soon found that his fingers wouldn't respond properly anymore as he tried to grip the sweatshirt. They felt weak and brittle, too heavy and big on his hands as he tried to press down on the bleeding wounds. With how heavy they felt he thought they should have been able to staunch the flow already, but he must have had some powerful veins.

Fuzzy gray spots started to dance in his vision and the dizziness made him lean against the coldness of the Jeep window in an attempt to stop the world from spinning. Aching terror tightening his throat and chest, and he could almost taste what would have been a panic attack if he'd had the energy.

_If Derek survives, he's going to kill me,_ Stiles thought.

_I'm so sorry Derek, I keep screwing up._

_Oh, god, dad, I'm sorry…_

* * *

"The last thing I remember," Derek ground out, teeth changing in his mouth to become fangs in the face of the threat he knew loomed over to his Mate. "Was Stiles beside me, blaming himself for everything. Trust me when I say that is a very, _very_ bad thing and Stiles does not have the time for me to explain it to you. Leave! Find Stiles! Now!"

Erica was the first to pick up on the seriousness of the situation, translating the urgency to mean an actual _emergency_. Without a word she turned on her heel and walked hurriedly out of the vet clinic. Scott followed quickly after with Isaac and Boyd trailing after him. Allison and Lydia stayed with Derek to assist Deaton in whatever way they could.

Every few minutes Derek would try to lift himself off the table, slipping in his own blood as he did so, but he had a manic determination, that was exhausting itself frighteningly quickly, to get to the door but his energy kept giving out on him.

Stiles needed him, he needed to get up, go to him! What kind of Alpha was he? What kind of Mate?

If he wasn't busy trying to escape he was staring blankly at the ceiling above him, berating himself, and desperately begging any god who would listen to let his pack get to Stiles in time.

* * *

Erica and Boyd had split off from Isaac and Scott to go check Stiles' house. Perhaps he'd gone to get something? To see his dad for some kind of comfort? No matter how unlikely sounding, they would check. Unease filtered between them easily. Something was wrong, and they didn't like it.

They arrived to find the sheriff home but he told them he hadn't seen Stiles since that morning.

The apprehension grew to fear.

* * *

Scott and Isaac retraced the path from the vet to the warehouse. About halfway between the two they rounded a curve in the road and saw Stiles' Jeep haphazardly parked at a sharp angle halfway off the road. Black skid marks and the still present smell of burnt rubber made the two young wolves realize that Derek may have been right about Stiles. Something was definitely wrong.

Scott assumed panic attack. He had been around enough in the days after Stiles' mom had passed to know that Stiles had them occasionally, and pretty badly, too, and Scott couldn't think of a better reason for Derek to have been so scared for Stiles. Clearly the Alpha knew Stiles would be overwhelmed and unable to breathe through the attack. Scott found himself filled with a similar fear to what Derek had. What if they hadn't made it in time?

What would he do without his best friend?

* * *

Lydia was nearly in tears as she watched Deaton work on Derek's wounds, breathing deeply through her nose in an effort to keep herself calm, hold some measure of composure.

"I'm so sorry, Derek," she whispered, tears trembling in her large eyes, but not falling. "The only thing you asked me to do was to keep Stiles safe and away from the fight. I tried to catch him in time but my teacher held me after class to talk about some _stupid_ project and Stiles got away. I'm sorry. If you die it will be all my fault."

"I'm not the one you should be worried about." Derek said quietly, staring hard at the ceiling in the struggle to stay awake.

Lydia felt a sharp pain her chest at the thought of causing something awful to happen to Stiles, and couldn't hold her tears back any longer, letting them fall silently, ignored over her cheeks.

* * *

It was then that Scott realized that he had frozen in his tracks while staring at the Jeep, something like horror tingling through his senses, coming from his nose. He was broken out of his shock induced trance by the anguished cry tearing from Isaac's lips, almost turning into an agonized howl.

Scott was at the Jeep in an instant and was met with a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life. The scent was so strong he wanted to tear his nose from his face for the monstrous things it was telling him. Stiles was leaning weakly on the door trying feebly to stop the flow of blood cascading down his arms. His hands shook violently as he pressed a dirty sweatshirt to the gaping wounds. Scott had never seen him so pale and his eyes were flickering wildly behind his eyelids as he fought to stay conscious.

To stay alive.

Scott tore his eyes away for a second as he took a deep and fortifying breath, trying to ignore the way that the blood made him want to vomit up his intestines because this was _Stiles, _his best friend and… he flew into action and took control of the situation. He tore open the door – almost tearing if off completely – catching Stiles as he fell against him.

He quickly handed the partially conscious boy to Isaac and motioned for Isaac to get in the back seat with Stiles. Isaac complied without hesitation and Scott threw himself into the driver's seat as he did his best to ignore the slowly cooling puddle of his best friend's blood that he was sitting in. He steered the car back onto the road and drove faster than he ever had before to the hospital.

Behind him, Scott heard Isaac typing out a text with shaking fingers, his breath coming in shaky sobs and whimpers wriggling out of his no doubt tight throat.

* * *

Derek finally felt Deaton pull away with a satisfied, somewhat stressed smile. His work was done and Derek was healing on his own just fine now, as fast as he could on such limited physical fuel. Derek was off the table and out the door before Lydia, Allison or Deaton could react. He pulled out his phone as he ran and found that he had a text.

His heart almost stopped when he read it.

"Found him. Meet at hospital. Hurry."

* * *

In the back Scott could hear Isaac begging Stiles to stay with them. To open his eyes. Not to give up. Scott also heard the soft wheezing breaths that came from Stiles pale lips as his lungs fought to keep working despite the limited blood his heart was providing them with. Scott listened to each drop that fell from the still bleeding arms and he cursed every single one, blinking his eyes clear when they started to fill, ignoring the tears as they spilled over. They weren't important.

Stiles was.

He focused in on the faltering heart beat that was his only sign of his friend's continued life. Each pump pushed more blood out but also kept Stiles alive for another few seconds.

As he pulled in to the hospital emergency entrance Scott had to strain to hear the weak heart still fighting valiantly on towards life and death at the same time. The ultimate oxymoron. When the doctors came rushing out pushing a gurney in front of them, Scott heard that weak heart skip a beat. As Isaac placed the pale body on the gurney and the two wolves watched with hopeless devastation as the doctors wheeled Stiles away as fast as they could, Scott realized that Stiles' heart had stopped.

Down the hall Scott heard a doctor calling a code blue and he heard the sound of paddles being charged with electricity, the high frequency shrieked through his eardrums, but even that pain wouldn't make him focus elsewhere. What importance was such trivial pain when his best friend was dying in the other room?

"Clear!" He heard the sharp sound of impact as hundreds of volts of electricity pulsed through the small and weak body of his closest friend, the wet shuddering of a failing, weakened heart wrenched his own. Scott and Isaac walked numbly through the hospital doors, trailing blood after them, and sank into the first two chairs they found, huddling together unconsciously for whatever meager comfort they could find.

* * *

Derek burst in and stared at them with wild eyes, panting as his weakened body struggled to do as he demanded, as he took in the blood covering them, the silent sobs and the shaking body that Isaac couldn't hide, and the drained, hollow look in Scott's brown eyes. He couldn't find the words to ask Scott where Stiles was so he was glad in the most awful way when Scott gave a desolate, lifeless motion in the direction the doctors had gone. Derek strained his ears in that direction, trying to hear the heart-beat of his Mate through all the chaos of the hospital. Instead, he heard the high pitched sound of defibrillator paddles charging up. Derek sank to the ground as shock and cold horror overtook him, recently treated internal organs jerking in shock as he felt the strong urge to be sick all over the hospital floor.

The worst possible outcome stood glaringly before them. Of all the people to lose, Stiles would be the worst. The pack would never survive without his bright smile holding them all together.

In the distance, Scott heard a doctor yell, "Clear!" and he shuddered, hunching over more into Isaac, who curled right back for whatever security the contact could bring. All he could hear was the jolt of electricity again and again and the slight jerk of Stiles' body.

* * *

**AN: No! Stiles! Why do I do such horrible things to you? I am a horrible person!**


	5. Survivor

There was a strained, hollow, anguished silence that permeated the waiting room, the room which was stained with the scent of the human pack-mate. The very blood in the werewolf's veins _burned _with the tortured suffering of _loss._

_Stiles…_

Then there was oh-so glorious, heart wrenching _sound._

With a faint, quivering, wet tremble, Stiles' heart weakly resumed its fluttering, shaky beating; like the shaking of water from the down on an angel's wings, dull thumping was the sign of a miracle, the cure to despair. Down the hall the two present Betas of the pack came to life once again, where before they had waned, covered in the haze of death that held them, numbing their cores, thickening their throats and burning their eyes. It wasn't a pretty, happy, cliché moment of celebration, it was a release of tension, of vigil, that set their skin jumping, hearts racing, breath coming in choked sobs of relief, an ugly, messy grief of what could have been – what could _still _be – and they barely kept themselves from howling out that agony of it. This feeling of loss, even as they didn't lose that which was precious to them, what they loved and held dear, a _piece _of themselves, they could have, it had been so _close. _Oh, so, so close.

_I'm trying, I'm trying, _that strained, wet stuttering said. _I'm fighting, I'm fighting._

_I'm here, I'm here, _it reassured, weak and tired, on the cusp of _everything. I'm alive, I'm alive._

The veil of death, the mist of iron tang and emptiness, began to lift and abate.

Visibly, Derek gasped in air, his lungs jerking and spasming just like the rest of his muscles did, skin quivering with the need to _Change _and holding it back, swallowing the need to _rip, _and_ tear, _to _bleed _an enemy that he could not touch. He swallowed back the triumphant terror that tried to howl from his throat in signal to their enemies – to the _world, _that their Stiles lived, that he had conquered _death – _and tried to calm the rapid, angry beating of his heart, to support both himself, and the panicked liberation of the storms eye his pack had just stepped out of, with that one miraculous sound.

With slow, deep, somewhat shaky breathes, he eased himself back to standing, joints aching with his forced humanity, his _control, _he stood, trying to be firm, to be solid; a wall holding back the tide, a dam keeping the river from drowning those that lived in the den below.

As soon as he made it to standing – to anything other than _shattering – _his shivering, frightened, so very _young _pack-mates stood on stumbling, numb, shaky limbs and huddled in close to him, hands reaching out almost without thought to touch. Although the two boys who crowded both together and against his left side only sought comfort from their Alpha, from the suddenly clarity of _mortality, _they also gave strength, gave Derek what he needed to cement himself more into the here and now, instead of the all-encompassing, smothering, _silence _of before.

Shaky, almost Changed hands gripped at his arm, his side, his shirt, seeking, searching for solace. He lifted his left arm and turned just enough to grab both of his young Betas and pull them to him, his Alpha instincts giving out the aura of comfort, of home, of safety, of _pack _that they hungered for in their anxiety, a rumbling, sub toned hum started in his chest, at a decibel unnoticeable to human ears. Despite the burning ache that started up in his guts at the action, he encircled them with both arms, drawing them closer as they gripped at him, pressing in close to catch his scent. He took a moment to breathe them in, how _alive _they were, though afraid and hurting, something inside easing as they gave matching whining groans back at pitches too high for the human range.

The present pack members took a minute to enjoy and fully comprehend the steadying beat of the human's heart as Derek's hand gripped the back of the two teenager's necks rhythmically, sending pulsing waves of relaxation, comfort and calm through their tensed, frantic bodies. The gasping sobs from Isaac began to quiet into little whines of unhappiness and fear, his glowing eyes going from burning with grief to simmering with unhappiness, muscles twitching and jerking as he pressed his side against Scott, and his face and front against the older man, hands clutching into the fabric that crossed his Alpha's shoulder blade, and chest respectively. The elder Beta's lips were quivering and his breath hitching with soft, harsh grunts of distress, eyes burning saffron with the almost loss, tears burning over his eyes and trailing over his grimacing features, his muscles were rock hard with tension, but his skin shivered and jumped with his heart, his hands and grip mirroring the youngest werewolf.

Part of Derek was relieved at their normal pack behavior, at the closeness that was what pack was _meant _to be, but the majority was so _angry, _so horrified, so _tired, _because it had taken something so terrible to bring them to this point.

Only the two of them, out of the entirety of the pack, only two so were this close in this moment to what it was to truly be pack, and it likely wouldn't last.

He felt selfish for enjoying their need for comfort, for taking comfort from them when he knew it was he that was the cause of this entire disaster in the first place.

If only he'd listened to Stiles, let him come in the first place, they could have planned the raid out. If only he had trusted the pack with Stiles' secret so they would have known not to leave him to his pain. If only he were _better, _a better person, a better werewolf, a better _Alpha…_

With a careful, deep, centering breath that drew in the comforting, strengthening scents of his two present Betas, he carefully tried to take a step back, loosening the grip he had on the back of their necks, only to get a reaction he definitely hadn't expected.

Isaac gave a low moan of alarm, fingers scrabbling against his flesh through the fabric of his slightly bloodstained shirt, butting his head back against Derek's hand before pressing against the older man's chest, his own chest heaving, eyes wide and dry, quivering with something beaten and afraid of abandonment. Scott gave the mournful, almost silent whine of the distraught, grip almost painful against his flesh, curling up closer to the elder werewolf, hitching his shoulders with harsh breaths, eyes flickering to and from burning and despair, dipping his forehead against the Alpha's shoulder and almost trying to arch his back into the older man's reassuring hand. Seeking more contact with the comfort his Alpha radiated.

Swallowing a mixture of happiness and uncertainty, the bittersweet of their desire for his comfort, for his presence, and the fact that they sought this from the one who was the reason for their grief, the one who was the instigator of their pain in the first place, he sighed. Carefully, he gripped the back of their necks once again, gently situating them against his sides in a way that would allow them all to keep contact as he began to guide them towards the end of the hall where his Mate lay fighting – and winning, gods he was _winning _– for his life.

At the confused, worried whines that greeted this motion, he started up a reassuring rumble in his chest, relieved when they began to move with him, the younger werewolves meeting their hands together against his back, tangling – mangling, really – his t-shirt in their mingled hands, gripping both each other and his flesh rather uncomfortably. He didn't begrudge them though, as they shivered under his arms, breathing harsh, eyes barely glimmering this side of humanity as they held back the wolf.

As one, they walked towards the frail life of the weakened human in their pack.

They walked as _Pack_.

When they reached the room that housed the struggling, strengthening heartbeat and looked through the thoughtlessly unblocked window into the E.R. room, Derek felt himself draw in a sharp breath, felt Scott choke back a wordless cry, one that would have been senseless, but held infinite meaning, and listened to Isaac moan and breath through his nose harshly. The damage… oh _Stiles…_

Deep gashes covered his arms, quickly covered by pressure bandages by one nurse, as another hurriedly prepared stitching utensils for the doctor who had forcefully dragged their human pack-mate back from death's door. Against the pale white sheets, Stiles looked like a ghost, the pallor of his skin blending with the starched sheets and the red stain still seeping from his arms spreading slowly outwards. A nurse rushed into the room through the open door with several blood bags to set up a transfusion, to replace the teenager's blood, the scent of which coated the halls nauseatingly, causing bile to sting the back of the Alpha's throat. Doctors and nurses surrounded the bed methodically hooking him up to various medical instruments while the one nurse moved to hook up the blood transfusion.

Derek shuddered as he watched the scene unfold, grip tightening on the teenagers' necks in response to their own reactions to his disquiet. His mind struggled to reconcile the image of Stiles laying half dead, features limp and elastic on the hospital bed with the smiling energetic face that Stiles so often wore. Derek turned his face away from Stiles unable to watch anymore, burying his nose first into Scott's hair for a moment, before doing the same to Isaac, trying to smother the smell of almost-death with the scent of his living, breathing pack. Straightening a bit from the slouch he'd unconsciously fallen into, he felt his back crack with how stiff his muscles had gotten, taking steps back from the window, eyes closed, he tightened his grip on the two for a moment, before shifting his hands to their shoulders despite their whining.

He wanted to stretch and flex his aching claws from their position, but remained firmly in place.

Taking deep, even breathes, which his Beta's unconsciously mimicked, he tried to force the image of the weakened, pale Stiles from his mind.

After he had regained something like control, Derek quietly dropped his head between the two teenagers who were leaning on him for support, their wide eyes staring in pale horror through the window, he flexed his grip on their shoulders for a moment to get their attention.

"Thank you," Derek said softly, deep and hoarse, a lower rumble of _wolf _hidden behind his calm, comforting, thankful tone. "Thank you for finding him. You saved him."

The two huddled closer after a moment of shock, wide eyes turning from Stiles to himself before they glanced at one another, brows furrowing ever-so slightly before they almost tried to burrow beneath his skin. With the exhaustion that was creeping up his bones from the linoleum floor, he took the few steps needed to lean back against the wall, his Betas clinging like burrs to his sides, slowly starting to relax their defensive, wounded, frightened posture to stand straighter, although they kept their grip on him strong and immovable.

The next ten minutes were horribly endless and stressful, none of them took their eyes from the human teenager who was only a matter of feet from them. Twice – gods, _once _was too many times – Stiles heart had slowed down dangerously though it never fully stopped again. About fifteen minutes after Derek had arrived and had his world destroyed and shakily rebuilt within a matter of minutes, Boyd and Erica showed up with the sheriff in tow.

Everyone held back to allow the sheriff some space as he went to look in on his son, his face was stony and pale with worry. The look on his face shifted the minute the doctor walked up to him to explain the situation, for a moment his features went slack with shock, then swiftly passed through confusion on to horror, before finally settling on one of grief and unspoken agony. It was a face that aged a decade in the minute long phone call it had taken to tell him he was needed at the hospital. To tell him his son may be dying, had nearly done so already.

The self-loathing that swam in his dampened eyes was a mirror to Derek's own.

They both felt responsible.

Erica and Boyd hung back uncertainly as they caught sight of how close Isaac and Scott were to their gruff Alpha, their own distress hung heavy on their features, and Derek let out that comforting, sub-vocal hum of comfort as he looked at them, inviting, but not ordering them to come and take their own comfort from the closeness of pack. They hesitated for a moment, taking in the way that both of the other werewolves were turned into the older man and the exhausted contentment that they were emanating, before glancing at one another, coming to a decision.

They approached and Erica folded herself to floor, pressing against Isaac and Derek's legs, curling her hands behind one of each of their knees as Boyd went to the Alpha's other side, pressing his side into Scott's back, shoulder pressed to Derek's arm for a moment, before the hand that was hidden by Scott's body reached over to snag onto the back of the older werewolf's shirt. The older man got the feeling that this shirt was either going to be the keepsake that spoke of what they _could _be, or would get thrown in the trash for the same reason. It was with a mixture of melancholy and joy that he felt his other two Betas calm some and lean more heavily against their pack-mates.

This could… this could _be _something, and he wanted it to be, to give them this all the time, but…

_Stiles…_

The doctor looked tired and everyone did their best to ignore Stiles' blood on the gloves and sleeves of his scrubs. Oh, God, the _smell._ He looked from one face to the next, pausing for a moment to take in the odd sight of a bunch of teenagers crowding together against a twenty-something, the girl sitting comfortably on the ground, pressed against two others like it was the most natural thing in the world, before he turned again to the sheriff, looked into his eyes with weary sadness, and stepped towards him.

"Your son is stable, Sheriff, but he has lost a lot of blood. Our main concern at this point is brain function. Your son's heart stopped and it took us four and a half minutes to resuscitate him. There's a chance that it caused his brain to go long enough without oxygen that permanent damage was caused. I'm sorry, but we won't know for sure until he wakes up. You are welcome to go in when you are ready, just let the nurses clean up a bit, please. Please use the Nurse Call button to get ahold of someone if he wakes up and we can come assess any issues."

The sheriff didn't miss the distinct, "if," he wakes up. Neither did Derek and the rest of the pack. They knew that he was just meaning at the time being, really, but it sounded so much more final than that, and it caused another raise in tension in the pack. The sheriff steeled his shoulders, face set and weary, before he reached out to shake the doctor's hand.

"Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for what you've done for my son."

Then the sheriff trudged past the doctor and into the room holding his only family in the world, his _son_, no mind to the nurses who were still puttering around cleaning up and checking vitals. As he walked he seemed to be slowly crumbling inwards and the second he was through the door he stumbled into a chair, sitting almost like a puppet with the strings cut. The pack slowly followed him into the room, Erica standing and curling into Isaac as they walked in.

They settled themselves into the room, Boyd moving to get a chair and – surprisingly – shoving Derek down into it on the other side of Stiles bed before standing to his side, hand curling over his shoulder and the other's moved to make themselves comfortable. Erica and Isaac settled themselves on the floor at Derek's feet, both with one arm wrapped around one of the older werewolf's legs, and the other clutching each other's hand. Scott shifted to his other side, letting Boyd have his spot, curling one hand over Derek's wrist, his opposing arm wrapped around his stomach in self comfort. The Alpha found himself absently petting his sole female Beta's hair with his free hand, giving that comforting rumble again when she pressed her face to his knee for comfort, the action mirrored by Isaac as they all stared towards Stiles' limp form.

It wasn't long before Lydia and Allison finally arrived as well, and after a glance through the window, struggling with crumbling features at the sight of their friend, they commandeered some chairs from outside to bring into the room to set themselves up in vigil as well.

Allison brought hers over to the side with the pack, settling down next to Scott, and their hands automatically gravitated towards each other, the werewolf standing just a bit straighter with that little boost of support from his girlfriend.

Lydia, on the other hand, set her chair next to the sheriff's – no, Mr. Stilinski, Stiles' dad, he wasn't the sheriff in that moment – and met Derek's eyes with her own, the message of support being needed on both fronts coming across and being accepted. Mr. Stilinski needed just as much comfort as anyone else, _more_ than anyone else. She rested her hand on Stiles' father's, and the man gripped it without looking over, and unconscious plea for comfort, for support.

Derek felt awful, felt his heart trying to seize in his chest, but had to forcibly calm himself when his pack shifted anxiously at the change in atmosphere, and he started the gentle rumble again to calm them.

This was all his fault, all the pain that his pack was going through, he'd caused this. All the pain that the most important man in Stiles' life was going through, the man who had _raised _the teenager he was in love with… it was _all his fault._

Scott watched the sheriff as he slowly grasped his son's hand, movements slow and stiff, age that he had no right to resting heavily on his shoulders, wrinkling his brow and graying his features with grief. The sheriff's hand shook when it met with cold, clammy skin, curling carefully around his son's fingers, as if he would crumple from the slightest movement.

"Why, Stiles?" He asked in a broken whisper, picking up his son's hand carefully to press it against his lips, and then his forehead wearily. "What drove you to this?"

There was aching silence, only broken by the steady, if slow, beat of the unconscious teenager's heart, a paltry comfort.

The pack didn't quite know what to say, couldn't quite speak even if they did. After all, most of them had no idea what was going on either. Derek slowly looked around the room with tired, sad eyes at his family, breathing in the combined scent of them, tainted only by their confusion and pain, the sadness and almost-heartbreak. Almost-death.

His eyes settled at last on the pale body that they were all here for, he studied him as he always did. He didn't look like Stiles, his skin waxy and haggard, his skin almost had the unmolded sheen of clay. Stiles didn't smell right. He didn't smell like Stiles. He didn't look right or smell right or feel right. He smelled like medicine and illness, like pain and weakness. Derek had never seen the hyperactive teen so still, not even in sleep – which, he'd been witness to a number of times – and that scared Derek.

He concentrated on the soothing beat of Stiles' heart and the steady, if shallow rise and fall of his chest, the rasp of oxygen passing through the tube in his nose, and the wet-dry click of his throat as he swallowed. Even the high pitched beep of the heart monitor eased Derek's mind; anything was better than the screaming of electricity as it shot through his Mate's body, than the harsh thump of his body jumping on the bed as his heart failed to restart. Anything was better than that _silence. _Staring at the boy in front of him, at the boy – god, he was so _young –_ Derek built up the courage to finally admit what was on his mind. He took a deep breath of the combined scents of his pack, took in the feeling of their presence, of the feeling of _pack, _that he was ultimately about to tear apart – had already started to, with the very act that had brought them together – so that he could give them reason, could tell them of his failure and make them understand that none of this was on Stiles.

It was his fault.

"It's my fault."

It was Sheriff Stilinski who looked up at Derek, not the grieving father, and there was something almost sharp in those eyes, seeking a target just as much as the wolf within Derek did, and waited for him to explain.

_Demanded _it of him.

Derek didn't want to lose this solidarity that they'd somehow created in this moment, because he was weak, but he'd done enough to these people, caused them enough pain, and he owed it to Stiles to at least try to fix this.

So, in the sterile white hospital room, staring at his half dead Mate, voice soft and stilted, hoarse and a little broken, Derek shared with the pack and with the father of the young man he loved, the struggle Stiles had been fighting. He told them how he found out about Stiles cutting and how he had agreed to keep it secret. He told them about removing dangerous items from the house – something that caused some recognition in Sheriff Stilinski's eyes, some deep sadness. He spoke of the long nights he and Stiles had spent in each other's arms as Stiles fought the urge to break open his own skin.

Throughout it all, his audience remained quiet except for the occasional sharp inhalation, and his pack tightening their grip on whatever body part they had their hands on. Derek finally looked up from where he had been staring into Stiles' face, as if his salvation lay there, unaware of how obvious his own quiet despair was, how deep they could see it ran, despite how well he contained it, and into the eyes of the man across from him. He was silent but there were tears in his eyes as he stared back at Derek, there was so much sadness, so much regret and pain, such age behind the elder man's light blue eyes that the Alpha werewolf felt his tongue begin to feel even more heavy in his mouth, his throat thick.

His hand that was in Erica's hair was still stroking, and she nuzzled into it tearfully, but he was too focused on the weary parent before him to really notice, just continued his subconscious comfort. Isaac's cheek was rested on his knee, and he stared dolefully up at his Alpha, eyes wide and wet as he swallowed whimpers of concern and unhappiness. Boyd had clenched his jaw, deep, dark chocolate eyes soft and sad as he stared at the human laid out on the bed before him, an understanding of some sort in his gaze even as he gripped the elder werewolf's shoulder tightly in support. At some point Allison had shifted close enough to grip his hand instead of Scott's, and her eyes were wet and overflowing, lips quivering and hand shaking in his grasp, which he squeezed in absent comfort. Scott was staring at Stiles' unconscious face with something like heartbreak, eyes filled with agony and self-recrimination, his hand had at some point shifted so that it was on Derek's shoulder, and he leaned on it for support against his own inner turmoil. Lydia stared at Stiles, her grip on his father's hand tight and fragile, her features somehow blank and covered in abject despair, tears running unchecked over her soft cheeks.

Derek took a deep breath – he could do this, he could, he had to finish this now, or he never would, and he'd fall inside his shell and be unable to, just like he couldn't express himself to Stiles, causing all of this to happen – feeling like he was breathing through lead and water, and then spoke his next words to the sheriff, to the father.

_Please, forgive me._

"Sir, I made the choice to protect Stiles on my own," _I failed all on my own_. "I was arrogant in thinking that I would be able to protect him without you and the rest of his friends, without anyone. Today that arrogance almost killed him. It still might," Derek's voice quivered and almost broke but he kept going, this time addressing the entire room again. If he stopped then, he'd never start again, because he was a coward. A weak, useless coward. "If Stiles and I had trusted you, confided in you, then this would never have happened. Instead of me being the only one looking out for him, he would have had his whole family, all his friends, and you could have protected him when I failed," _fail, all I do is fail. I'm a failure, everyone I love I fail. They all die because of me. It's only because of Scott and Isaac that I haven't lost him yet. God, I'm so sorry._ "I'm sorry. I could have stopped this. If you guys had known, if I'd told anyone else," this he directed only to the pack, because they would lose him too, could have lost him because of their Alphas idiocy, his failings. "Then you never would have left him alone after what happened earlier."

Derek's gaze had been drawn to the ground, his guilt felt like it was crushing him, he wanted to shrink in on himself and disappear, but he kept his shoulders straight for the two hands that gripped him as support, even if he didn't recognize it in that moment.

Scott tore his gaze from Stiles to squeeze the shoulder he was gripping, standing up straight to take his weight off of the older man, trying to be reassuring but unsure if he was succeeding. Everyone was looking either at Derek or at the sheriff as they waited for some kind of response, all faces were a different mixture of unhappiness and pain.

When no response was forthcoming, Derek said in a voice so quiet it was barely audible to the human on the other side of the room, barely squeezing the words out of his tight throat, his heart pounding with anguish and resigned despondency. "If you want me to, I will leave your son's life," he'd have to leave town, but really, there wasn't anyone who wanted him there anyway, especially after what he'd done to Stiles. "I completely understand if you don't want me to be a part of it anymore. But before I go, I need you to understand that what your son did was not done out of weakness. He is one of the strongest people I have ever met, and I know he will continue to grow stronger. He loves you and wants to make you proud. Please let any anger you feel over what Stiles did fall on me and not him, it's not his fault. He has enough on his shoulders already."

He was met with silence for several seconds, and the Alpha werewolf felt his heart break just that little bit more, if it were at all possible.

Derek stood, ignoring the sounds of distress from his young pack as he did so, their hands reaching for him as he stepped away and up to the the side of the bed and reached out towards his Mate's face, hesitating a moment before he gently stroked Stiles' pale cheek with his thumb. He leaned down and placed a light kiss on the boy's forehead, taking a deep breath to catch a hint of the teenager's true scent beneath it all – all of the pain, the anguish, the almost-death, and the weakness of his human body – and then, fighting back the emotion threatening to spill over, beginning to pull his shields around himself again, to pull back into his emotionally stunted shell, he turned to leave the room and Stiles behind forever.

To leave Beacon Hills behind him. He was destroying this town just by living in it.

Maybe he was cursed.

"So do you," he heard from behind him as he was only a few steps from the door, his whole body feeling heavy and exhausted, guts churning with the burn of the almost-healed.

Derek halted at the sound of the sheriff's voice, hesitant and unsure of what he'd heard, but didn't face him.

"I… don't understand, sir," he managed haltingly, voice quiet, half inside his shell already, half terrified by the agonizing hope that was blooming in his chest.

The sheriff stood, giving Lydia's hand a squeeze of gratitude as he did so, deep, intelligent eyes locked onto the oldest werewolf in the room, as he moved towards Derek.

"You said my son had enough on his shoulders already, and I don't disbelieve you. Your shoulders seem to have just as much if not more on them," he glanced at the teenagers that had decided to seek solace in the twenty-something year old man before him, at the tearful, despondent, pained looks on those faces, and saw beneath to the affection, the care they had for this man who seemed to be in love with his son. No, more than any assumption on his part, it was downright _obvious_ now that he thought to look for it. "I wish you and Stiles had come to me with this sooner, before things got this bad, but I understand why you didn't, how you could feel you could handle this, the two of you. You never could have known it would come to this," there was pain and knowledge in his eyes as he turned to look at his son, laying on a hospital bed, reflecting his mother in his pale visage. "I understand the arrogance of not thinking about your choices, automatically thinking that you know best because it involves the person you care most about in this world," he looked back at Derek, eyes full of wisdom and exhaustion, as well as a love, a melancholy that reflected back from the werewolf's eyes. "I know what it's like to make the wrong decision, too."

Derek faced the sheriff fully then, not quite knowing what to think of the sheriff's response, but part of him understanding that maybe he didn't need to.

"Regardless of whether or not you made the right call, I can see that removing you from my son's life would only cause him pain. From the sound of it," and God be damned if it didn't hurt that he didn't see his own son's struggle, didn't know. "He has too much pain in his life as it is. I won't add to it," _Not anymore_, he promised_. I won't let this happen again._ The sheriff took a deep breath and looked around the room, eyes catching every young, tearful pair in the room. "However, I am sick and tired of all the secrets being kept from me. I hope this was the worst of them," this had better not be some kind of teenage sex ring or something, because God help him if it was anything like that he was going to shoot someone. Where was Mr. McCall when you needed him? He had so much tension built up he would like to take a crack at the bastard. "Regardless, I want to know. If any of you intend to remain at my son's side you are going to tell me what has been going on for the past year. All of it."

Scott cleared his throat and softly asked, voice a tad rough with emotion, and mildly, strangely distorted, "Would you believe me if I said it was werewolves?"

The sheriff sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes in a _very_ practiced motion at his son's best friend's words.

"Scott, this is hardly the time for jokes," he said even as he turned around to look at Scott. Or at least who he thought was Scott. Where Scott was most certainly _supposed _to be.

Where Scott had been standing, there now stood a much hairier version of the Scott he had known for years, his brow ridge something you might see from that vampire show from a few years back. Bunny something. Bunny? No, that wasn't right, Bucky? No, no, Bambi? Whatever, that didn't matter, this was…

The sheriff couldn't seem to string enough words together in his mind to respond. His mouth gaped open and closed as he tried to formulate some kind of response while he took a quick step backwards in shock, stumbling a bit only to be steadied by the younger man beside him.

The grotesque Scott rapidly shifted back to regular Scott – the Scott he'd watched grow up next to his son, the adopted child he'd never asked for but ended up attached to anyway – and the teenager rushed towards the sheriff, hands fluttering in front of him uncertainly.

"Sir? Are you alright? I'm sorry, that was really sudden," _Jesus,_ Stiles' father thought. _This kid needs to get out more. How can he still look like such a puppy faced twelve year old?_ "I should have eased you into it a bit more. I know it's a lot to take in. You're right though. You needed to know and we've been lying for far too long."

The sheriff wasn't looking at Scott anymore, though. He was looking around the room at the rest of the teenagers, understanding slowly working across his features. Isaac would have sworn he could hear the gears turning in his mind – it was so much like Stiles' think face that he almost gaped at the sheriff – as he tried to decide if every single person in the room was a werewolf. His gaze finally landed on Stiles and a look or horror crossed his face.

"Stiles isn't a werewolf," Scott quickly assured him, hands fluttering again without a task, as if trying to sooth something. "Neither are Lydia or Allison."

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat to speak, his voice rather bemused, filled with confused, dumbfounded seriousness.

"The rest of you are though? Every _single_ one of the rest of you are like Scott?" Small nods came from the wolves, Erica and Isaac had shifted so that they were pressed against Boyd's legs as they had been Derek's, though he was standing, and had a hand on both of their heads, fingers entwined in their hair. "How _exactly_ did my son become involved with werewolves?"

The sheriff listened in silence as Scott quickly told him about Stiles' adventures with wolves that had started with a silly – _stupid_ – notion to look for a dead body, having to remind him to slow down several times. Finally he got to the events of that day.

It took surprisingly little time, considering how fast Scott was talking.

"– And then we decided to attack the Alpha Pack ourselves! We told Stiles not to come but, of _course_ Stiles followed us anyway. Actually, he pretty much saved our lives. We were all but beaten and then he stopped the Alpha Pack almost singlehandedly with a little help from Lydia –" said girl cleared her throat delicately, a single brow raised from where she was sitting, holding Stiles' hand delicately in her own, softly petting the back of his hand. "– Sorry, more than a little help. One of the werewolves tried to attack Stiles though and Derek got in the way. He moved, like, freaky fast, too. Derek got hurt worse than usual, like way worse – I mean, she stuck her hand through him! – and then we had to take him to Deaton –"

"Deaton? The vet?" The sheriff interrupted, rubbing his thumb and forefinger into the corner of his eyes, before squeezing the bridge of his nose.

He could practically _hear _the migraine cackling on its way behind his eyes.

"Yeah, he knows about us. I'm not really sure why or how. I'd tell you if I could but he's a bit of a mystery to us too. Well, to me, anyway," said when he felt the stares on the back of his skull, which he rubbed abashedly. "I just know he always helps us out. Anyway, Stiles told us he'd meet us at Deaton's and we left with Derek. We just… I… we… left him there…" Scott sounded anguished, face scrunching up, shoulders hunching, previously busy hands wrapping over his stomach for comfort, as he thought about what had happened because of the pack leaving Stiles alone earlier.

Because _he'd _left him alone.

Derek spoke up from the doorway where he had been lurking, voice soft and steady, eyes closed as he spoke.

"When I came to in Deaton's office, I told the pack they needed to find Stiles. I knew he would blame himself for my getting hurt, and that he was in danger. I tried to find him myself but I couldn't even get off the table," the self-disgust he felt at that was saturating his words as he spoke them, and he grimaced at his weakness. "Isaac and Scott found him and brought him here."

"So, that's it then, huh?" The sheriff muttered mostly to himself; well… werewolves. "It certainly clears everything up," boy, did it. "_Werewolves_. I did _not_ see that one coming."

Thank god it hadn't been some kind of sex/drug ring. This was so many times better than having to deal with anything like that.

Werewolves.

_Jesus._

A nervous laugh rang through the room as the pack finally relaxed. The sheriff wasn't trying to shoot them or drive them out of Stiles' room, so all in all telling the sheriff had gone much smoother than they ever would have thought. No one really knew what to say after that so instead everyone settled in to wait for some movement from Stiles. Derek came fully back into the room and, after receiving a brief nod from the sheriff telling him he was welcome, he pulled his chair right up next to Stiles and sat down, his pack circling him against to touch, take, and give comfort. There was a relief he felt at the contact that he could never describe, could never begin to explain, but he took some respite from the unearthly weight that had settled on his chest with their touch.

He took Stiles' hand in his carefully, gently – he was more fragile than ever – and he, like the rest of the room, waited.

_Please wake up._

* * *

Six hours later the room was mostly empty, but not for lack of trying on the teenagers' part; the sheriff and the Alpha had practically had to shove them out the door telling them to go home, eat, and for god's sake, _bathe_. The sheriff and Derek were then only two still there. Sheriff Stilinski had insisted Derek go too, but Derek steadfastly refused, because it hadn't been an order, and he needed to be near Stiles more than he needed to eat anything.

No matter how much his internal organs still ached with lack of fuel to heal entirely.

When they were alone the sheriff glanced at Derek and asked, "So how long have you been in love with my son?"

Derek stared at him with wide eyes, jaw loosening to gape a little at the blunt question.

Was this where Stiles got it?

"Don't act so shocked," the sheriff rolled his eyes and raised a brow. "You weren't exactly being subtle. You haven't let go of Stiles' hand in hours. You look at him with nothing but love in your eyes, like he's your world, even though you clearly try to let it not show. It was pretty obvious that being a werewolf wasn't the only thing you were hiding."

"I didn't know if it was my place to tell you," Derek responded sincerely, a sense of relief flooding over him. It felt nice to have a responsible adult in the know. Well, one without guns. Or well, wolfsbane, at least. "Stiles was worried you wouldn't approve."

"Why would he think I wouldn't approve? I would never have a problem with him being gay," even if he had denied the very idea of it, not that long ago, now that he thought about it.

Derek looked embarrassed, ducking his head slightly in a way Papa Stilinski decided was a bit endearing, and reminded him that he'd watched this kid grow up some as well. "Actually, he was more concerned with the fact that I was a suspected murderer on the run from the law at one point."

"Oh," _right_. "That. Well, maybe I would have had an issue before you told me everything else, but now I finally have the whole story. It seems pretty clear that you're not who I thought you were."

Which was a huge relief really. It was stressing to think that this town had a could-be murderer.

Derek looked relieved and a brief smile crossed his face as he looked back down at Stiles, gently stroking the back of his hand that wasn't covered in tape or needled.

"Derek," the sheriff continued, face serious, and thoughtful. "I know you blame yourself for this," god knows we all blame ourselves. "But you need to understand something. If you hadn't chanced upon my son that day and found out what he was doing, we would never have ended up sitting in a hospital at his bedside," Derek flinched at the words but the sheriff continued. "We would have instead been sitting around a coffin," at that, Derek lifted his head again to look at Sheriff Stilinski. "Maybe not today, maybe not in the near future, but it would have happened. He would have gone too far, and no one would have known to look for him, or thought anything was wrong. Derek if you hadn't known his secret, there would have come a time when things got bad enough in his life for him to lose control like this. Only no one would have known about it," he emphasized again, leaning forward and staring hard into the young man's stormy eyes. "He would have died all alone in his Jeep if you hadn't known to tell the others to find him."

Derek didn't answer, but it was clear that he was taking the sheriff's words to heart. A little piece of his guilt flaked off.

Another half hour passed in companionable silence and Derek had soon volunteered to go get some coffee for them both. Then, as the sheriff sat alone at the side of his son's hospital bed, he noticed the first flickering signs of consciousness. It was small at first, just a finger twitching, and the sheriff almost convinced himself he had imagined it. Then Stiles had blearily opened his eyes, squinting at the light above him, tongue running over severely chapped lips. Sheriff Stilinski sat frozen, afraid that if he moved he might break the spell. Stiles slowly turned his head and with a confused look he whispered hoarsely, almost inaudible, "I was expecting to see mom."

Sheriff Stilinski gave a choked sound that might have been a laugh of relief but was more realistically a cut off sob, and launched out of his chair and threw his arms around Stiles. He eased his grip quickly when he heard the slight hiss of pain Stiles let out but he stayed sitting on Stiles' bed with his arms around the boy.

His_ boy_. His baby boy.

Oh god, he'd almost lost him.

"No, Stiles, you're not dead. You gave it a good try but you pulled through. Don't you _ever_ do that to me again," there were tears in his dad's eyes, and Stiles could feel his hands shaking as they rubbed at his shoulders gently.

Stiles wrapped his arms around his dad as best he could with all the medical instruments attached to him and he buried his face in his dad's broad shoulder, tiredly feeling his eyes fill with tears. He'd really wanted to hug his dad lately, and it was perfect. Probably a bad way of getting one, but, he wouldn't argue with it right then and there.

"I'm so sorry, dad. I never meant for it to go so far."

"Yeah, son, I know. It's just a good thing you have an entire werewolf pack to protect you."

Stiles stiffened instantly, heart pounding.

Wait… What?

"Umm… What are you talking about?"

Sheriff Stilinski smirked just a bit into his son's temple as he spoke. Little twerp had that coming.

"Scott told me everything. From what I hear, I raised a damn fine hero," he sobered a bit and the amusement slipped from his face. "I said some pretty terrible things to you when you kept lying to me. I still don't appreciate the lying, but I should never have said the things I did. I'm sorry, son. I'm proud of you and I always will be."

Stiles smiled brighter than he had in a long time. If this was a dream, he really didn't want to wake up, because his dad was warm, and just as comforting as he'd been when Stiles would have a nightmare when he was ten. They were silent for a minute and then Stiles broke the quiet.

"So, werewolves? Of all the things you thought I was keeping from you did you ever think it was werewolves? Because if you did, seriously, kudos dad."

The sheriff and Stiles looked at each other and both started laughing, soft and tired and affectionate, full of aching love and a lot of guilt from both parties.

"No," definitely not. "On my list of things you might be hiding werewolves wasn't even a thought."

So glad it wasn't an illegal drug ring.

Stiles' laughter tapered off and Sheriff Stilinski turned to see what he was looking at. Derek stood in the doorway, holding two coffee cups, beaming at the two of them laughing together, eyes tired and affectionate, full of warmth and softness. _Oh thank god, _Stiles thought. _He still looks at me like that. He still loves me. I didn't ruin it. Thank god._ Of course as soon as he saw them looking at him he stopped smiling and tried to pull off his tough werewolf persona again, ducking his head a little abashedly, a light flush on his cheeks that took yeas off the chiseled planes of his features.

That only made Stiles and the sheriff start laughing again.

Sheriff Stilinski stood up then, after a moment of wistful thoughtfulness, and clapped Derek on the shoulder.

"I'm going to go find a nurse. They wanted to be told when Stiles woke."

He took the coffee from Derek's hand and gave him a look as he left that clearly meant, 'I am leaving to give you two a moment alone before the others find out he's awake. Don't waste it.'

It also contained a little 'Touch him inappropriately and I will _end _you.'

Maybe he should consider keeping the sheriff away from Mr. Argent.

Just for safety's sake.

Stiles stared at Derek for a moment and then dropped his gaze to look at his bandaged arms. His voice trembled as he murmured, "I'm sorry."

Derek had the boy wrapped in his strong arms in an instant; careful to be gentle, to not hurt him any farther than he already was, to show he cared.

"Don't say that. Please don't say that," he whispered into the boy's hair, taking a deep breath, glad that some of the scent of weakness had abated. "You aren't the one who failed."

Stiles pulled back to look at Derek through watery eyes, staring into those tired, sorrowful, love filled eyes. He was so warm…

He really loved Derek.

"But I promised not to do this anymore. And not only did I cut, I almost killed myself doing it! I can't believe I was so stupid."

"No one blames you, Stiles. You were hurting and scared. You reacted the way you've been conditioned to react. I didn't expect years of habit to disappear in just two months. I shouldn't have, and you shouldn't have expected that either."

"I should have been strong enough to resist it."

Derek had to struggle not to growl in frustration at the boy, and unconsciously started up the hum he'd done for the pack, unnoticing of how the stiffening of the teenager's shoulder slowly eased.

"Stiles, please give yourself more credit. You are _strong_. You _saved_ all of us. Just because you have a moment of weakness does _not_ make you a weak person. If I was half as strong as you are I would be the Alpha that I want to be. The Alpha that I struggle towards being. I see in you a strength I could never even _hope_ to attain. You _are_ my strength. I can't even begin to express how terrified I was when I thought I might lose you."

How shattered he had felt, how hollow.

Stiles searched Derek's eyes for some sign that he was lying but all he saw was sincerity and love. And exhaustion, god did the Alpha look tired, like he needed to sleep for a week and eat a whole farm, he really should make the werewolf go and get something to eat and he was going to say something but… Then Derek was leaning in towards him slowly and he gently pressed his lips against Stiles, as if scared to break him. His lips were soft and warm against Stiles' cold, chapped lips. Stiles smiled against him and returned the tender kiss as best he could with so little energy and a returning lethargy that had receded with the adrenaline of being alive, of seeing his dad before him, of looking into Derek's eyes and finding love.

Derek pulled away first to the protests of Stiles, even if it was almost mumbled and his eyes were barely focusing on the werewolf. Derek smiled at him, a slightly amused tilt to his lips and brow, before he took his hand and explained.

"The pack is almost to the door."

As he spoke the words, the door was flung open by Isaac who came bounding in and straight up to Stiles' bedside. He grinned from ear to ear and wriggled in place for a moment like an overexcited puppy before he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you awake! We were so worried!" he exclaimed, excitement and joy, worry and concern and sadness all wrapped around him as he spoke.

The rest of the pack had squeezed into the room too by then, crowding around both he and Derek while Scott made his way to the front of the pack. He approached Stiles quietly and hugged him tightly, being careful of his damaged arms. Scott and Stiles shared a moment of silent communication where Stiles apologized with his eyes and Scott made it clear that he was just glad he was okay and then apologized himself, not enjoying the shock and confusion in Stiles' eyes as he looked at him.

He felt rotten.

What kind of friend was he that his apologies just shocked Stiles?

There were a lot of hugs that night and a lot of tears shed. The doctor came in to check on Stiles and declared him to be fine, but he had to take it easy for at _least _a week, and have the bandages on his wrists replaced often, and he had to be careful of the sutures. The nurses came in a few times to try to ask the pack to leave, but it was pretty clear they had no intention of going. Lydia had merely raised a brow and tossed her hair as if to say 'Excuse me?' and they'd left it at that.

The pack just stared at them as if they were crazy, and turned back to cuddling any part of Stiles or Derek they could get their grubby little hands on. And, _man, _Erica could be _really _handsy when she felt like it. Isaac pretty much cooed at the wounded human teenager and kept his huge, watery blue eyes on him the entire time. Boyd stood a near silent vigil at Derek's back, his gaze on Stiles and Erica and the pack soft in a way that the human had never seen before. Scott was earnestly trying to describe some game that they were totally going to dominate while Allison rolled her eyes.

Morning found them asleep and scattered around the room, mostly in some haphazard puppy pile that made Stiles concerned for Isaac's ability to breath. At some point in the night Derek had crawled onto the bed with Stiles and Stiles' head was resting comfortably on Derek's chest.

This was good. This was nice.

This was pack.

* * *

Time passed, and Stiles was cleared to leave the hospital with 'Very Specific Instructions' that he was _so_ going to follow if the look in Lydia and Erica's eyes was anything to go by; he did not want that kind of torture. The things those two bombshells could come up with would probably drive him insane, and ruin what little social life he had.

Eventually, his arms healed, leaving behind far more scars than he liked, these ones much deeper and darker than he could stand, and not just because they were ugly and made his arms ache like he had a chainsaw going hard at his wrists. He hated them for the weakness they reminded him of and for the look that crossed Derek's face sometimes when his eyes fell upon them. Derek told him he was beautiful – eyes soft and sad as he said this, but still full of that all-consuming love – and that his scars just proved how strong he was.

They were his hurdles, and he didn't need them anymore.

Wolves didn't need hurdles, and the pack would carry him if he needed to jump over anything, would assist him with any challenge he tried to undertake.

Once Stiles had his strength back, Sheriff Stilinski insisted on improving his self-defense skills and the two spent long hours sparring, and Stiles wished he'd never agreed, that he could just sleep in on the weekend. Though he was rather surprised at how in shape his dad was, considering the fact that he wasn't supposed to eat junk food and his cholesterol was monstrous, his dad was pretty fit, as much as he really didn't want to think about it.

Derek often showed up to help and then he would stay for dinner, sometimes cooking, and he was a rather surprising connoisseur of the kitchen, although the steak really wasn't a surprise. The three would spend hours laughing together, he and his dad prying the werewolf further out of his solitary, lonely shell to remember what it was like to have family, and the sheriff would smile every time he saw Stiles reach for Derek's hand or Derek staring at Stiles like he was the best thing that ever happened to him. And a lot of confusion was usually present, too, but Stiles did that to everyone.

He was a force of nature.

Or, well, ADHD, really.

Every night, Stiles and Derek would share a loving smile as Stiles marked another day free of cutting on The Calendar that his dad had picked up, just for that.

There were still struggles, there always would be, but there was the pack, and there was Derek who gave Stiles strength. Stiles gave what strength he could right back to them and together they fought the monster of addiction that had tried to take Stiles away.

This was a war that Stiles was so very glad he didn't have to fight on his own anymore.

He wasn't alone, he was happy.

Life was getting good.

* * *

AN Tori: The story is over but we will be adding an epilogue soon that will lead into the sequel.

AN Cher: I'm so done with this. I keep like, almost tripling the size of the previous chapters, and I fear carpel tunnel's wrath. And a loss of what little sanity I have left.

AN Tori: She has no sanity.


End file.
